


The Rise of House Sigeweald: Book II

by elspethaurilie



Series: The Rise of House Sigeweald [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 02:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 28
Words: 107,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3710686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elspethaurilie/pseuds/elspethaurilie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having found the womer from Elspeth's family's past, Elspeth and Lydia now find themselves in the company of a serious young Nord, dedicated to the protection of the young Breton--a task that takes on even more importance when Elspeth's Dovahkiin status is revealed. Tensions ensue as Elspeth must learn to navigate and balance the expectations of being a Nord legend and her own desires. </p><p>Elsewhere in the Cyrodiil, Elspeth's family and mentors come together in dangerous quests of their own, ones that could alter the political landscape and the fate of the Empire entirely. </p><p>You won't believe what happens next.</p><p>Or, maybe you will.</p><p>Once again, This is not the Skyrim story I would have chosen to write. This is the one that insists on being written, despite my efforts to quash it.  And now I'm sharing it. This is the story formerly known as "Elspeth's Epic Disaster."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Frostcraig Spire—18 Frostfall 4E190**

Bedyn stopped in the door way and peered into the bedroom where Elspeth was sitting cross-legged on the bed, reading—so intently focused on her book that she didn’t notice him standing there.

“Are you ready?” he asked, smiling warmly at her.

The sound of her father’s voice jolted her from her story-world, startling her a bit.  She furrowed her brow.  “Can we skip this week papa?  I want to finish  _The Story of Aevar Stone-Singer_  tonight.  Please.”  With this she transformed her frown into a pout, complete with wide wolf-pup eyes that she knew her father could rarely resist.

“I’m sorry,” he replied, grinning inwardly at her attempt to sway him.  “But just as the grandfather in your book must impart the wisdom of the Skaal onto the child, I must also convey this story to you.”

“But it’s the same story every week,” she protested, although she knew that wasn’t  _entirely_ true.

“And it’s the most important story I will ever tell you.”  He studied his daughter intently.  She was 10 years old now and he had been telling her this story for years, adding details as she grew older.  Perhaps it was time to do something different.  “I think it’s time for you tell me the story,” he said finally.  “And I’ll know if you’ve been paying attention.”

She wrinkled her forehead in mild annoyance before closing her book and placing it on the side table.  “All right,” she said as she pulled her legs up and stretched her nightshirt over her knees, something that drove her mother crazy.  But he didn’t care.  She could rip her clothing into shreds and thread them back together with Daedra silk for all he cared.

Bedyn leaned back on the bed and put his arm around her, squeezing her close.  He cherished their Sundas night storytelling tradition.  It wouldn’t be long before she would leave the village and attend school in Cyrodiil.  Xeri, his mentor-turned-housecarl and Runa, the Nord woman who acted as their family’s nurse, would take her away to bring her closer to fulfilling her destiny—a fate already written and shown in bits and parts to Xeri over the years.  But that was still at least a year away.  “Any time you are ready,” he prompted.

“Okay.”  She snuggled into the crook of his arm and began, “once a very, very, very long time ago—”

“Mara’s mercy kid,” he interrupted.  “It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Yes it was,” she insisted.  “It was a  _very_  long time ago…because you and mother are old.”

Bedyn snorted.  “You know elves who are upwards of 300 years old.”

“Yes, but you are old Bretons,” she explained.  “As, I was saying…once, a very long time ago, there was a young girl named Evangeline who was born in Cheydinhal and moved to Chorrol so that her father could advise the new Count, Rufus.  She studied and practiced magic and was very serious about becoming a mage.  After she had been living in Chorrol, a boy moved there from Wayrest.”  She paused for a moment and looked up.   “You were my age when you met mother, right?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Will I meet my husband soon?”

Dear gods I hope not, thought Bedyn.  “Maybe you’ve met him already,” he replied.  “Maybe it’s Undilar,” he teased, knowing that she had the sweetest sort of crush on the Altmer mage who lived in the village.

She pursed her lips as her face reddened in embarrassment.  “Mother didn’t like you at first, did she?”  She furrowed her brow again.  No matter how many times she heard it, she couldn’t imagine how her mother, nay anyone, could find Bedyn unlikeable.  According to Elspeth, Evangeline hung Segunda, but not until after her father hung the larger Masser.

“No,” he laughed.  “She did not.  She thought I was lazy and fickle.”

Why did she think that?”  Her tone was both curious and incredulous.

“Because I was lazy and fickle.  I wanted to have adventures, but I didn’t want to prepare myself for the life of an adventurer.  That’s why your grandmother hired Xeri, to teach me discipline.”

“And to fight!”  At ten, Elspeth was at the stage in Xeri’s training where combat was fun and invigorating, albeit challenging.  Eventually that would change, but he just smiled at her enthusiasm.  He didn’t have the heart to quash her excitement.

“Yes,” he agreed.  “Xeri taught me to fight, but discipline was more important.  Of course, I don’t need to tell you that.”  Elspeth was a serious student, but Xeri was always on her to focus, to temper her zeal with restraint.  She had so much potential and it saddened him that he probably wouldn’t get to see her grow into a powerful mage.  Would she be a natural leader like her mother?  Inspiring people to rise up? Or would she be part of a legion, using her strength to bolster the force that would bring justice and healing back to the Empire?  Xeri’s visions were so cryptic, so incomplete.  All they knew was that she needed to be prepared.  And that she would eventually have to leave.

“And then mother liked you?”  Her sweet voice interrupted his thoughts before they become troubled.

“Yes, that brought her around.  So then what happened?”

“You trained and studied together until mother went to Arcane University and you were recruited by the Blades.”

“That’s right.  Tell me, who did your mother meet at Arcane University?”

“Her mentor Fainde,” she answered.  “He was her instructor and the Arch mage.”

“Tell me about him,” he prompted.  “He is very important.”  Official histories of the Thalmor and the Empire would just as soon forget mages like Fainde, but Bedyn would not let his name be forgotten.

“Fainde was a powerful mage.  His parents were dissident elves who fled to Sentinal to escape the Thalmor.  They fought during the Nights of the Green Fire and his father was killed.  His mother took him to Daggerfall where he lived until he moved to Cyrodiil to attend the University.  He became a trusted adviser to Titus Mede who appointed him to the Elder Council.”

Elspeth also heard plenty of Fainde from the other mages, but Bedyn was nonetheless pleased at the details of the story she recalled.  So often she interrupted his history lesson with questions of her grandmothers and of his childhood in Wayrest.  “Yes,” he agreed.  “In fact, he created a seat on the Elder Council for Arch-mages going forward, so that he would always have an advisor on magic and the Aldmeri Dominion.”

“Fainde knew that the Empire needed more battle mages and spellswords to defeat the Aldmeri.  He started an army with you and mother, right?”

He smirked.  “I guess you could say that,” he said.  “Fainde believed that they would attack and began training his students heavily in destruction and restoration.  He sent your mother to Cloud Ruler temple to consult with the Blades.  Using our network of spies, we found mages all over Valenwood and Summerset Isle who were opposed to the Thalmor.”

Bedyn stopped and looked away as his face darkened.  The Blades in Summerset Isle had also provided Evangeline with vital information on the Thalmor and had paid dearly for it.  He swallowed against the hard lump growing in his throat as he thought of those Blades—men and women with whom he had trained—who were sacrificed in a despicable show of Aldmeri treachery that started the Great War.

Elspeth could almost feel the tension growing in her father’s arm as he held her.  She looked up, trying desperately to read his face.  Sensing her growing unease, he took a deep breath and continued.  “Your mother was in Daggerfall where she had gathered more dissident elves when the war broke out.  The Thalmor largely ignored High Rock so she was able to train mages there.”

“And when Fainde was killed during the Sack of Imperial City, she became Arch-mage and brought her mages with her!”

“She did,” Bedyn smiled, recalling the ease with which Evangeline had inspired them to come to Arcane.  There weren’t many at first, but the mages who had been training with her traversed the deserts of Hammerfell and the mountains of Skyrim—risking their lives at times—to continue their studies and training.  They might have attended the College of Winterhold or the academy in Wayrest, but they chose Arcane believing that Evangeline might one day lead them to confront the Thalmor.  “Go on,” he said.  “The story isn’t over.”

“When Mede retreated north, mother built a new army!”

“Well, sort of,” Bedyn replied.  “She increased destruction training.  But she had to be careful.  The University had always functioned independently, but the Thalmor were now just outside the University walls and had spies everywhere.”  In fact, Evangeline had used much of her family’s fortune paying Thalmor agents to leak false information to their superiors.  These traitors to the Dominion had also paid with their lives.  He shook his head.  So many lives lost in the pursuit of secrets and lies.  And they were never more than just a very small step ahead of the Thalmor.  If Mede hadn’t attacked Imperial City when he did, the Thalmor would have caught on and destroyed the whole University.

“But that’s why the Emperor was able to take back the city in the Battle of the Red Ring, right?  The battle mages and spellswords?”

“Yes,” he said, returning his full attention to her.  “They reinforced Mede’s forces and he was able to defeat the Aldmeri army.”  Bedyn bit his lip.  He was in Western Cyrodiil during the battle, but the stories he heard from Evangeline and other survivors were devastating.  Only a handful of her mages survived and those that did were traumatized.  These were the first to join them in exile.  They were not looking to start a rebellion.  They came seeking solace, to heal.

He looked down at Elspeth who was scowling.  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t like the next part,” she replied.

“Really?”  This was his favorite part.  “You don’t like the part where your mother stands up to injustice?”  Before the Battle of the Red Ring, Evangeline had been little more than a thorn in the side of the Thalmor.  This is when she became a threat.

“It’s not that….” Her voice trailed off and she looked down.  The story of Evangeline’s fall from grace, those moments when her mother’s talents garnered her, not respect but punishment cut into Elspeth’s gut every time she heard about it.

Bedyn hugged her tight and kissed her on the top of her head.  “Some stories are difficult to hear and tell, but they are important.  So, let’s get through the part you don’t like.”

“Mother refused to support the Concordat and Mede removed her from the Elder Council.”  She scowled even harder.  “I still don’t understand.  The Emperor has supreme power.  Why did he ask the council for support if he was going to sign the treaty anyway?”

“That, my dear child, is a question that scholars will debate for decades,” he explained.  “Some people think that he was making an effort in good faith, and that if more council members had dissented, he would have demanded changes to the treaty.  Others believe that he simply wanted a united front to create an illusion of authority as he yielded power to the Thalmor.”

“What do you think papa?”

He thought about this question carefully.  Before they were banished from Cyrodiil, he had a tremendous amount of sympathy for the Emperor.  “I think that when the Concordat was presented to him, the Emperor was trying to make the best of a difficult situation.  He couldn’t risk another war.”

“So, why didn’t mother support him?”

“Because your mother is very, very, very stubborn.”  Bedyn grinned as he recalled the day that Evangeline had stood up to Mede and the Thalmor Justiciars, which he attended as a covert representative of the Blades.  One by one, the members of the Elder council—with varying levels of enthusiasm—indicated their support, until they came to Evangeline.  Her seat, that of the university Arch-mage, was the last to be established and the last to vote.  She responded to Mede’s petition with a resounding, “No.”

When Mede and some of the other Elders tried to persuade her, she threw what could only be described as an eloquent tantrum.  Her tirade included her usual articulacy and fervor but there would be no interrupting her.  When she was done, several Elders, including the powerful and influential Catherine Motierre and Count Rufus of Chorrol, were swayed and threatened to rescind their support.  The Thalmor briefly withdrew the treaty and when the council convened the following week, Evangeline was informed that her seat had been dissolved.

“The Emperor may have been trying to make the best of a bad situation, but the Concordat is a disgrace,” he continued.  “You’re mother couldn’t support something so unjust.  She would not let the deaths of her mages be in vain.”

“So, they kicked her off the council.  And she went to Hammerfell to help General Decianus fight the Thalmor there.”  She leaned back into her father now, knowing this was the event that led to her family’s exile.

“Papa?”  Elspeth pulled away suddenly.  “Is mother a traitor?”

“What?” He asked, astonished.  “Who told you that?”

“Irinde says that’s what they call her in Imperial City,” she said.  “Is she?”

“No,” he replied firmly.  “Cyrodiil was not at war with Hammerfell and so your mother was not offering aid to an enemy.”  This was the part of the story that was the most difficult for him.   When she returned from the desert, the Thalmor pressured Mede to arrest and execute Evangeline for treason.  They relented, not because Mede insisted that she hadn’t committed treason, but because he pointed out that such a move would only infuriate the council and inflame anti-Thalmor sentiment to dangerous levels.  When they insisted that she be exiled, Bedyn felt that Mede should have taken the Thalmor’s eagerness to eliminate her as a sign of their fear, a weakness he could exploit.  But he didn’t.  He simply conceded to their demands, which led him to think that Mede’s actions were never pragmatic or strategic.   He was doing little more than securing his own position.

“And that’s the end of the story.  That’s why we live here.”

“Oh my sweet girl, the story is far from over.  But I will tell you more in time.”  Bedyn sighed.  Eventually, he would tell her about Nerussa, his family’s steward, the devoted Altmer woman who had served the Sigewealds as far back as the Oblivion Crisis and who, for reasons he still could not comprehend, had become an important target of the Thalmor.  A series of miscommunications and poor planning on the part of Bedyn and Evangeline had left Nerussa alone in Chorrol when the Thalmor captured the city.  The guilt they both felt nearly destroyed them.  It was the birth of Elspeth that had brought them together again although the Altmer’s name was never spoken.  The last he’d heard was that she was on her way to Skyrim and he was banished to the village before he could inquire further.

“Papa,” Elspeth’s voice was trembling with nervous excitement.  “Is mother going to fight the Thalmor again? Or is she just going to keep writing about how awful they are?”

Bedyn snorted and then coughed and covered his mouth.  Elspeth hadn’t intended to poke fun at her mother, but it was an on-going joke among the mages in the village that the powerful former Arch-mage had simply retired to write propaganda, trading her sword and staves for parchment and quills.  “Maybe she will fight,” he answered.  “Or maybe she will prepare her mages to fight them.  I don’t know for certain.”

“Will I get to fight the Thalmor?” Her voice perked up some more and she raised her eyes eagerly.  Her understanding of the injustices wrought by the Thalmor was still being honed.  And although she was intelligent, she was still a little girl.  She had neither her father’s deep-seated feelings of righteousness nor her mother’s fiery passion and anger.  Yet, she emulated her parents, her sense of their heroics—particularly those of her mother—was fostered within their community of mages, and she wanted to fight as they had.

He pursed his lips.  The visions given to their housecarl, vague as they were, betrayed a fighter whose role was hazy at best.  He longed to see justice served, and while he could imagine Elspeth as a powerful mage, when she asked him directly like this it pained him to think of his baby girl in the throes of battle.  But the fates were not his to decide.  “I just hope that whatever you,” he said, “whether you fight nor not, you do with integrity and for justice.”

“Okay!” she said with a level of matter-of-factness that only served to emphasize just how young she still was.  She snuggled down in her blankets as he tucked her in.  “Will you be gone when I wake up?” she asked.  Bedyn was making his yearly journey to Gottlesfront priory, south of Chorrol, where his mother was buried.  It was the one concession they managed to wrench from Mede and Thalmor when the conditions of exile were delivered.

“I think so.  Unless you want to wake up at 4AM just to say good-bye,” he replied.

“No thank you!” she said firmly.  “Don’t forget to put Lady’s mantle on her grave from me.”

“I won’t,” he said, smiling.  “And you best study and practice while I’m gone.  I want you to have Stoneflesh mastered by the time I get back.”

“Sure,” she said sleepily.  “Good night papa.”

“Good night sweet, girl.  I love you.”

“I love you too.”


	2. So Many People in the Neighborhood

The pounding in her head was unbearable and the rage, palpable.  Elspeth struggled against the binds that held her to the chair, wrenching and twisting her whole body so hard that the leather straps cut into her wrists and ankles, leaving deep red burns.  She clenched her teeth together and screeched at the mage whose dispassionate expression only seemed to incite her more.  The anger clouded her brain but within moments she recognized him.  Onmund. Bile rose in her throat as she thought of his betrayal.  “Gah! I am going to fucking kill you!!!” she screamed.  He appeared unmoved by this and his silence continued to inflame her wrath.  As she thrust her whole body forward, she could feel blood vessels vibrate and burst in her face. 

Her efforts proved to be futile.  She was stuck.  The anger was overpowering and she bit the insides of her lips until she tasted blood in an attempt to focus.  Her body continued to writhe in the chair and just as she thought her head might explode, Trygve came crashing into Breezehome.  “Get away from her,” he bellowed as he grabbed Onmund by the hood and tossed him to the ground.  Onmund, whose magicka was nearly drained, couldn’t reach his dagger and had no way to defend himself as the physically stronger Trygve held him down and raised his blade above him.

“TRYGVE, NO!” she screamed as her stomach seized and the angry mess in her head began to fade.

With his weapon in midair, he paused and looked back at her.  “What?” he asked, his usual composure and poisenow giving way to confusion.

“Back off!” As Trygve loosened his grip in response to Elspeth’s warning, Onmund knocked the weapon out of his hand and kicked himself free.  He stood up and walked across the room to where she was sitting, weary and bruised, and began to undo the ties binding her limbs to the chair.  As the last ties came off, Elspeth slumped forward into his arms.

“What is going on here?”  Trygve, who was normally very cognizant of his surroundings at all times, was utterly baffled by what he just saw.

Onmund glared at him as he helped Elspeth to her feet.   “We were working on Elspeth’s illusion resistance,” he explained, the irritation in his voice was plain.  “She mentioned that this morning.”

“But—” Trygve began, not sure how to respond.  When he asked Elspeth for her daily itinerary, she mentioned she would be doing some illusion magic with Onmund.  She did not, however, say anything about this…whatever this was.

“Trygve,” she interrupted, her voice cracked and raw from screaming.  “Please leave us alone.   I can’t….” Her mind, though no longer raging, was still cloudy.  Her head throbbed and the bruises on her wrists and ankles stung.  It wasn’t the worst she had ever felt, but it was their hardest illusion practice to date, and she was tired of explaining things to him.  All she wanted was to lie down.  She waved him off as she turned and limped up the stairs, leaning on Onmund for support.

Trygve crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head before turning and walking out the door.  Once outside, he took a deep breath, still trying to understand what he just saw. Since arriving in Whiterun, he seemed to be in a perpetual state of bewilderment.  Lydia and Elspeth baffled him.  They always seemed to be sharing an inside story, constantly snickering and completing each other’s sentences.  It wasn’t the depth of their friendship that bothered him—unlike Nerussa, he believed that could be an asset.  Perhaps it was because Elspeth was not a Thane, but in his opinion, the casual way Lydia regarded her duties was unbecoming of a housecarl.

Nerussa had appreciated the steadfast manner in which he and Iona approached their task.  In Whiterun, he seemed to be little more than a nuisance.  Even Toki seemed embarrassed by him.  Things came to a head two nights ago.  Elspeth and Lydia were drinking at the Bannered Mare and a man Trygve had never seen before brought tankards of mead over.  After he rushed over to inspect the drinks, Lydia pulled him aside and told him that  _everything_  he did only served to draw attention to them.  Also, that he was very lucky that Farkas had a good sense of humor.  With that, he agreed to tone it down.  Still, walking in on a screaming woman tied to a chair—believing that she might need his help didn’t seem like much of a stretch.

After leaving Breezehome, he turned into the market, nodding to Carlotta and Ysolda on his way to the Gildergreen, where he found Lydia talking to Alfhild and Hrongar.  “Did you know that Onmund was going to tie Elspeth up and make her scream during their illusion practice today?” he asked, when they turned and acknowledge him standing there.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Yes,” she said.  “They were practicing rage spells when I left.”  She smirked.  “If he didn’t tie her up, she would have attacked and probably killed him.”

“So that’s what they were doing!” said Hrongar, almost as if he were relieved to hear it.  “I stopped by there yesterday with some notes from Farengar and he had her all tied up.  I thought it was some kinky mage thing.”

“Hrongar!” exclaimed Alfhild.  Though she was used to, and often enjoyed his lewd remarks, it seemed inappropriate to implicate Elspeth and Onmund in them.

“Oh please,” said Hrongar.  “You’ve never walked by Farengar’s room at 3AM on a Loredas morning.”

Alfhild’s face contorted.  “Just…stop,” she said and held one hand up while the other one clutched her stomach.  “I’ve got to go help mother anyway.  Trygve, will you be joining us for dinner at House Battle Born this evening?”

Naturally this was the first he had heard about this.  They never invited him out.  In fact, he’d spent most of his time on the tundra—hunting in the morning, and wandering—still within eyeshot of the city—the rest of the time.  “I don’t….” His voice trailed off as he looked to Lydia who nodded her head in reluctant approval.  “Thank you, Afhild.  I will be there.”

“What about you Hrongar?”

“Sorry,” he said.  “I’m covering for Commander Caius.  In fact, I’m late.  I should go.”  Before he turned away, he gave Lydia a quick wink.  Alfhild retreated back to House Battle Born, leaving Trygve and Lydia alone, looking at each other uncomfortably.

“Does that mean Hrongar will be sneaking in the house tonight?”  He asked as they turned and walked back down toward the market.

“Probably,” she replied, pursing her lips in an attempt to hold back a grin.  “At least now you have a bed.”  Trygve had spent his first night in Breezehome in a bedroll on the floor.  After that, they moved the alchemy lab to the front of the house and moved him into that room.

“Yes,” he grunted.  “It will be nice not to be woken with a swift kick in the gut.”

“He didn’t kick you,” she said.  “He tripped over you.  And I’m sorry about that, but you shouldn’t have been sleeping so close to the doorway.”  Lydia felt a little bad, but she and Hrongar had a nice chuckle over Trygve’s strange behavior.   It greatly eased the tension Lydia was expecting since the last time she saw him.  They were getting along although she anticipated that it wouldn’t be long he would be pressuring her to talk to Balgruuf.

“Are there any honest relationships in Whiterun?” he asked.

Lydia scowled.  “No.  We’re all a bunch of liars,” she replied sardonically.

“Well, at least you two are honest with each other.”  He shook his head.  “I don’t know how Elspeth lives with herself, lying with Onmund every night when he doesn’t even know her name or anything about her family.  So much deception and—”

But before he could finish Lydia grabbed his shirt by the neck and threw him up against the side of Breezehome.  “Now you listen to me,” she said, her voice angry but firm.  “The integrity of Elspeth’s relationship is none of your concern, hear me?”

“Is everything all right here?”   It was Toki, who was less concerned about his cousin’s safety and more amused by his utter inability to get along with anyone.

“Yes,” said Lydia, as she lowered her arms and clapped a bewildered Trygve on the shoulder.  “I think we’re all finally starting to understand each other.”

It was becoming clear to him that, while Lydia may treat her duties with a level of informality he was not comfortable with, she was utterly devoted.   But with such passion for her wellbeing, he could not understand why his protective measures of walking Whiterun’s outer perimeter each morning and examining their food stores every evening were met with such disdain.  His only reassurance was that the depth of her commitment meant that she would do no less than lay her life down for Elspeth.

“If you would prefer, I could stay home tonight,” offered Trygve, when they were back inside Breezehome.

Although his tone did not indicate feelings of dejection, Lydia felt a bit guilty.  He was, perhaps, the most frustrating person she had come across in a long while, but that was no reason to deny him a basic hospitality.  Besides, there was no one in all of Whiterun better than Bergritte Battle Born at alleviating tension and making someone feel welcome.   He might actually enjoy himself.  “No,” she said finally.  “You should come.  Olfrid could use a friend and I imagine you two getting along splendidly.”

*****

The chatter and movement from downstairs roused Onmund from a light sleep.  He looked down and ran his fingers along the length of Elspeth’s arm, which was draped over him, stopping to inspect the contusions on her wrist.  They were darker now and looked like burns.

“They don’t sting anymore,” she whispered, drawing her face up to his and pressing her lips to his as he clutched her hand to his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he said remorsefully.  “I didn’t realize how much it would hurt.”

Elspeth swallowed hard and shook her head.  The pain in her arms and legs paled in comparison to the fury she felt toward him during the spell.  “I hated you,” she said, her voice trembling.  “That’s what hurt the most.  I don’t want to do that again.”

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck as she nuzzled back down against him.  “You’re getting too strong for that to happen again,” he said, tilting his chin and pressing his cheek against the top of her head.  “You’ll need to work with Drevis at the college.”

“I can think of worse things,” she said.  She liked the quirky illusion instructor even if he had given her the College equivalent of cleaning chamber pots as a task.  “Was it really hard for you,” she asked, “to see me like that?”

Onmund considered this for a moment.  It pained him to hurt her, but he would be lying if he didn’t admit that there was something astonishing in the raw intensity the spell triggered.  “Well,” he said finally.  “I don’t enjoy causing you pain.  But, you wear fierceness well.”

She smiled and then sighed.  “I don’t like the fear spells either, although wanting to run and hide from you is easier than wanting to kill you.  It would be nice if we could just use the calm spells for all the training.”

“Indeed,” said Onmund quietly.  He looked aside and prayed she wouldn’t sense his discomfort.  Of all the illusion spells he’d cast on her since she returned from Riften, those had actually been his least favorite.  She let herself give in to Pacify so many times, and he had to plead with her to fight it.  When the spell overtook her, it was as if every burden that had ever weighed down her soul was not simply removed, but had never been there in the first place.  She looked so peaceful, so content.

He hated it.  Because the only thing he wanted was to be able to ease her weary soul and he knew that he could never bring her that much peace without the spells.  Getting into Elspeth’s head and forcing tranquility where there was simply no room for it felt manipulative and dishonest. It seemed to confirm every accusation his parents laid on him when he first began practicing about the treacherous nature of magic and mages.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.  He had let his gaze shift a little too long and his body was growing tense.

“Nothing,” he said, bringing her back on top of him.  As the skin on their bellies touched and their legs intertwined, he felt the tension leave him.  He brought her face to his and kissed her passionately as he ran his hands down the curves of her hips, stopping to massage her backside and the bottoms of her thighs.  She groaned and spread her legs, taking him inside and riding him quietly but fervently until they both climaxed—almost simultaneously—and collapsed, their bodies worn and weary.  She slid up against him and sighed, smiling into his neck and swiftly quashing the feelings of ambivalence he had been entertaining.

“Are you going to the forge tonight?” she asked as she rolled off him.

“No,” he replied.  He sat up and pushed himself from the bed and began looking for some clothing.  “I changed my mind.  I’m helping Adrienne forge unenchanted swords for Idolaf, so I’m going to work during the day for the rest of the week.”

“You’d better tell Trygve your change in plans so he can mark it in his ledger.”  Onmund chuckled at this and she watched as he found his loincloth and tossed his robe aside.  He opened the dresser and pulled on a pair of wool trousers and a tunic.

She observed him for a moment before rooting around the bearskin for her own clothing.  “Why don’t you wear your robes when we go out, like to the Bannered Mare.  Or tonight, when we’re eating with the Battle Borns?”

He sat down on the bed to fasten his boots.  “What do you mean?” he asked.

“You did it in Winterhold too.  You always changed your clothes when we went to the Frozen Hearth.”

“It’s how I was raised,” he said although this wasn’t entirely true. He found that Nords were simply easier to be around when he wore street clothes.  They didn’t size him up or spit on him or beat him senseless—although those things hadn’t happened since Falkreath anyway.  In Whiterun, most people simply ignored the robes but there was a small part of him that was still somewhat uncomfortable wearing them when he wasn’t actively practicing magic.  Elspeth knew how miserable his childhood was at times, but he didn’t want to admit the unease Nords still inspired in him.

“No weapons on the table, no enchanted clothing at dinner—the College dining room doesn’t count.”

“I thought you didn’t like how you were raised?”

“I don’t,” he said, grinning mischievously.  “But old habits are hard to break.”  He found her shirt on the floor behind his feet and tossed it toward her head while she giggled and scrambled into her clothing.

Lydia was no less than thrilled to see them when they finally made their way downstairs.  They chatted briefly about their day while Trygve listened, lingering over a cup of tea.  For all his paranoia and rigidity, there were actually moments when he was not difficult to be around.  Once he settled down and sat back, he blended into the background of Breezehome nicely and it was easy to forget he was there.

“He’s the perfect Nord,” said Onmund when Trygve excused himself to the tap.  “Protective.  Dutiful.  Quiet, well when he’s not screaming in my face and throwing me to the ground.  Maybe when he’s done here, my parents can adopt him.”

They were all giggling when he returned but he was becoming accustomed to this, and he simply looked past them as he cleared his things from the table.   The walk to House Battle Born no different; he walked behind as the others chattered on in front of him.

Bergritte, however, welcomed him enthusiastically and took him to meet Olfrid, while the others helped themselves to mead and joined Jon at the end of the long table.  Within moments, Lars came barreling in the house, dirty from a long day of playing, and wedged himself—almost forcefully—between Elspeth and Onmund.  He balked when Alfhild insisted he wash and refused to move until Elspeth leaned over and promised that she would save his seat.

When dirty hands and faces were clean and everyone settled in, Olfrid greeted his guests with his usual formality though this time he thanked Lydia for yet another mouth to feed.  Elspeth knew that Bergritte liked nothing more than hosting new people, but there was something in off about tone and Elspeth couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or simply facetious.

“What brings the Thane of the Rift to stay in Whiterun?” asked Olfrid with the suspicious curiosity that Elspeth had learned was typical of him.  Lydia had already mentioned the story to Bergritte and so she couldn’t figure out why Olfrid felt the need to ask.  All she could surmise is that putting people on the spot gave him a sense of authority.

“I was asked to assist Elspeth.  We might have stayed in Riften but Whiterun is centrally located in case she has to return to the College.”

“The guild that hired me is sending more work,” Elspeth explained and wondered to herself if it would be inappropriate to invoke the spirit of Boethiah to get them through this little deception.  He could have simply been introduced as a guest if he hadn’t made such a deal about being Jarl Laila’s Thane when he first met Idolaf and Alfhild.

Olfrid, however, seemed unconcerned with this and moved to press him about the war.  “I suppose as Laila’s Thane then, you lend your support to the Stormcloaks?”  His voice was quiet but harsh and accusatory.

“Excuse me,” Trygve replied sternly.  “But while I may serve Jarl Laila, my devotion is to the people of the hold, not to her particular ideological positions.”

“So you support the Empire?”  Idolaf was hopeful that Trygve would simply agree so that they could move on.

“I didn’t say that either,” he replied.  “To support the Empire is to support Mede and I won’t lend my support to someone who so easily capitulated to the Thalmor after  _winning_  the Battle of the Red Ring.  He made no attempt to negotiate the terms of the treaty, which were nearly identical to the petition the Thalmor brought to the Emperor before the war started.”  The room was silent and Trygve moved his gaze back toward Elspeth, but didn’t let it linger.  “He’s a coward.  His response to the incident at Arcane University proved that.”

Lydia gasped, dreading Olfrid’s reaction.  But he didn’t respond.  No one did; they simply sat around in a stunned, uncomfortable silence.  Before Elspeth had arrived in Skyrim, Lydia had warned the Battle Borns not to bring the incident up.  Jon, like Trygve, had often used it an example of the Emperor’s spinelessness, leading to many heated arguments with Olfrid and Idolaf—the kinds of arguments that ruined meals and led to silences among the men that lasted for days.

While everyone looked around awkwardly, Lars was wiggling in his seat next to Elspeth who took it upon herself to steer the conversation.  “So,” she said to Idolaf.  “I hear you’ve agreed to let Onmund teach Lars magic.  How on Nirn did that happen?”

Idolaf furrowed his brow, though he was thrilled to have something relatively less controversial to discuss.  “Well, it’s not as though I had much say in the matter.  Bergritte had already agreed to it.”  He shook his head and took a large gulp of mead.  “Though I must say,” he continued, “Onmund made a good case.”

Lydia raised her eyes in disbelief.  “What did you say?”  She was not surprised to hear that Lars would get to study and practice magic—Alfhild and Bergritte would allow it, but she was incredulous that anyone might convince Idolaf it was actually a good idea.

Onmund smiled.  “After I caught Lars behind Belethor’s trying to conjure an atronach, I simply pointed out that without proper direction, a kid could get into a lot of trouble trying to learn magic on his own.”

“Like burning down a stable,” said Elspeth.

“Yes,” agreed Onmund, “Or…you know, conjuring a familiar who bites the Jarl’s nephew.”  Elspeth saw him cringe a little; that incident had initiated years of torment for Onmund, who was only about twelve at the time.

“You did that?” asked Idolaf as Onmund nodded.  “It couldn’t have been one of those fiery dremora?  Now I have to put up with Siddgeir.”

The rest of the table chuckled—even Trygve managed a very slight grin—while Olfrid glowered.  “Siddgeir is a loyal supporter of the Empire.  He deserves your respect,” he exclaimed, almost shouting.

“I will outfit the regiment that guards his hold.  And I will I will regard him with all due civility in person,” said Idolaf.  “But that doesn’t change the fact that he is an entitled, milk-drinking dandy prat.”  Idolaf pursed his lips in annoyance.  As loyal as he was to the Empire, he tired of Olfrid’s obstinacy on the matter.

“Do you remember when Balgruuf sent Hrongar and me there?” interjected Lydia, ignoring Olfrid’s glare.  “I told Balgruuf that we’d need a bottle of Black Briar Reserve or Siddgeir wouldn’t even talk to us.  So, Proventus brings us the bottle and Balgruuf opens it and pours three cups for us to drink.  Then he went down to the dungeon and filled the Reserve bottle with the swill that Toki and the other guards had been fermenting and said he hoped Siddgeir would enjoy it.”  She threw her head back and let out a loud guffaw.  “And Siddgeir drank it down and said nothing of it.”

“He couldn’t tell the difference,” said Jon, who was desperately trying to avoid looking at Olfrid, for fear his father’s look of irritation and lack of humor would send him into another fit of laughter.

Elspeth looked back over at Onmund whose grin was a mix of amusement and utter satisfaction.  In the space of about 15 minutes, Idolaf had vindicated Onmund’s hatred and distrust of the young Jarl, which was more than his parents had ever done for him.  She reached behind Lars and took his hand in hers.

“Anyway,” said Bergritte, “I had already told Lars he could practice magic with Onmund.   He said he wanted to be a battle mage like Elspeth and that was enough for me.”

This was the first Elspeth had heard of this and she was touched.  “I think you will make a fine battle mage,” she said to the now-blushing Lars.

“You’ll also have to learn to fight with a sword,” said Alfhild, knowing this would appease Idolaf somewhat.  “And wear armor.”

“Yes,” said Idolaf.  “It’s a serious endeavor.”  For all his mistrust of magic and mages, he knew that Elspeth could fight bandits and giants with the best of them.

“Will you teach me?” Lars turned back to Elspeth.

“Sure,” she said.  “And Onmund will help you forge your own sword.”  Lars scrunched his face happily and leaned into her in an awkward sort of sideways embrace.   Elspeth hugged him back and Onmund looked back affectionately at the two of them as he reached for his tankard.

“Gods,” said Lydia who was observing them from the other side of the table.  “I can’t wait until you two have your own children.”

“I hope they have his eyes and cheekbones.  And her nose and pout.” Alfhild tilted her head and continued to scrutinize them.  “They won’t be tall, though I suppose they won’t need to be.”

“They’ll be full of magic,” said Lydia with a dream-like quality in her voice.  “One will be a firebrand and the other will be a poet.  And they’ll be called Lydia One and Lydia Two.”

Elspeth and Onmund were blushing furiously as Alfhild and Lydia planned their future family.  He looked back toward the other men, who were simply shaking their heads.  Though not Jon, the playful turn in conversation seemed to bother him and he shifted his gaze toward his lap.  Elspeth opened her mouth—not to protest—but to direct the conversation away from Lydia’s imaginary namesake babies, but before she could speak, there was a loud bang as Hrongar came crashing through the door.

“Elspeth!” he croaked. “My brother’s going to want you—to see you.  You need to come with me to Dragonsreach.”  His face was bright red and he was panting over every word.

“Hrongar!” said Bergritte.  “What on Nirn is going on?”

“Dragon!” he said.  “At the Western Watchtower.”


	3. Some Kind of Way Out of Here

“A dragon!” exclaimed Proventus as he slapped his palm against his worried brow.  “I picked the wrong week to give up sweet rolls.”

“Just go back to the throne room and keep the terrified citizens at bay,” said Irileth sternly.  “They’ll be here in throngs.”  After he staggered off, she turned her attention to Farengar, who was practically bouncing on his heels.

“Where was it seen?  Where was it going?”  Farengar’s excitement was obvious.  “I must go see it at once!”  
“Farengar,” Irileth began, “I would take this a bit more seriously if I were you.  If a dragon were to attack Whiterun, I’m not sure we could stop it.”

“It would be most useful to my studies if—“

“Quiet you fool!” barked Balgruuf, who had stopped pacing the length of the war room long enough to let Keld, the guard who first spied the dragon, speak.

“My Lord,” he said, gagging and sputtering over each word.  “It came from the south.  It was huge.”

“Did it attack the watchtower?” asked Balgruuf.  The Jarl was not without worry, but his voice remained steady, almost calm, as he addressed the guard.

Keld shook his head.  “No, it was just circling overhead when Hrongar and I ran back here.  I was sure it would attack though.”  He leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees, still struggling to catch his breath.

“Good work, son” said Balgruuf.  “We’ll take it from here.  Get back to the barracks and get some food and rest.”  Balgruuf narrowed his eyes as he turned to his housecarl.  “Irileth, you’d better gather some guardsmen and get down there.”  He crossed his arms over his chest and looked up as he heard a group stomping up the steps.

“What are  _they_  doing here?” asked Irileth gesturing toward Elspeth, Lydia, and Trygve as they arrived in the war room with Hrongar.  “The Jarl has not yet sent for anyone.”

“Elspeth survived Helgen and is the only one in Whiterun who has seen a dragon,” explained Hrongar, still somewhat breathless.  “I thought she could help.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Balgruuf.  “Lydia and her companions will head out to the watchtower with Irileth and her guards.  Hrongar, pull some men from in and around Dragonsreach and position them just outside the city.   We need to be prepared if that dragon makes its way over here.  Alert the Companions too.  We can’t have too much help against a dragon.”

Irileth turned to the trio, who were looking intently and waiting for instructions.  “Armor up!” she ordered.  “And meet me at the barracks.”

Elspeth felt a wave of nervous excitement wash over her.  “I don’t suppose it matters that the last time I saw a dragon, I ran away?” she asked as they turned to leave the war room.

“Not in the slightest,” Irileth replied as everyone hurried down the stairs.

Back in the throne room, things were still quiet.  The news of the watchtower dragon had not yet circulated among the citizens, but Proventus, anticipating both the descent of terrified citizens as well as the dragon itself, looked incredibly distressed.  Balgruuf resumed his place at the throne, though did not take his seat until the last of the watchtower party exited Dragonsreach—at which point he sat and leaned forward, his chin in his hands.  He looked thoughtful and cautious as he prepared himself for the worst.

Outside, the districts were still quiet as the group hurried through the city.  In Breezehome, they hurried into their armor and scrambled around for supplies.

“I’m sort of amazed,” said Elspeth to Trygve, “that you’re not trying to talk me out of this—you know, being all protective and such.”

“Well,” he said as he fastened the buckles on his cuirass.  “In our short time together, I have learned not to try to talk you out of anything.”  He recalled the fit that Elspeth threw when he tried to prevent her from camping with Onmund at the forge.  “And more important, when duty calls, it calls for all of us.”

Elspeth nodded and then thought of something.  “Lydia!” she said suddenly.  “Bring your father’s shield.”  The shield had a powerful enchantment, capable of deflecting both fire and frost.   Lydia paused at the top of the steps where it hung, but removed it from the display rack and brought it downstairs with her.

Trygve handed them bottles of poison.  “This is the strongest poison I have; use it for your arrows.  Elspeth, where’s your bow?” he asked as he looked her over.

She and Lydia looked at each other and shook their heads.  “I don’t do archery,” Elspeth explained as she sheathed her dagger and then quickly debated whether to take her sword or her new axe.  She chose the sword, simply because as nice as the axe’s hilt felt in her grip, she was note quite as comfortable with it.

“Wait,” he replied as the women turned to leave the house.  “What do you mean you  _don’t do archery_?”  He sounded utterly baffled.

Xeri had nearly driven herself mad trying to train Elspeth with a bow and they had gone through every archery instructor in and around Bruma and the Imperial City.  Nothing frustrated either one of them more and on the day that Xeri finally threw up her hands and agreed that there would be no more lessons, Elspeth sounded a joyous yawp over the roofs of Bruma.  That night Runa made her favorite stew for an ironic celebration of their resignation.  
“I’m useless with a bow,” she explained.

He remained bewildered.  “But how do you fight from a distance?”

“Fire!” she said as she wiggled her fingers.  “Oh, stop looking so horrified.  I’m a Breton.  Besides, I prefer to get in someone’s face when kill them.”

“But—”

“Now’s not the time,” exclaimed Lydia as she herded them both out the door, where Onmund had just arrived.

He grabbed Elspeth’s wrist and pulled her close.  “Gods,” he said quietly, trying—and failing—to hide the anxiety in his voice.  “Do you want me to come?”

Elspeth caught herself before she stiffened.  Onmund wasn’t weak—he could hold himself against other mages.  And two weeks ago, he and Jon took care of some bandits that tried to break into the camp.  But recalling Helgen, there was simply no way she would be able to focus with him there.  “No,” she said.  “You should stay close to the city.  Watch the skies.  If the dragon comes this way, give it everything you have.  Hrongar will tell you where to go.”

“Okay,” he whispered as he pressed his head to hers and held her face in his hands.  “Gods guide you.”  Elspeth kissed him and hugged him tightly before following Trygve and Lydia over to the barracks where Irileth had gathered some very nervous guards.

“…I don’t know where it came from or who sent it.  All I know is that it made the mistake of attacking Whiterun.”  Irileth was fierce and she was determined to instill some fierceness in the men and women that had gathered.  “None of us have seen a dragon, much less faced on in battle.  But we are honor bound to fight it, even if we fail.  This dragon is threatening our homes, our families.  Could you call yourself Nords if you ran from this monster?  Are you going to let me face this thing alone?”

“We’re so dead,” said Pedr. Elspeth and Lydia had to stifle an inappropriate laugh at Irileth’s failure to inspire confidence through racial pride.

But the Dunmer remained unwavering.  “But it’s more than honor at stake here.  This is the first dragon seen in Skyrim since—”

“Second,” Elspeth interrupted.  “It’s the second dragon.”

“You don’t think it’s the same one?” asked Lydia, horrified at the prospect of more than one dragon in Skyrim.

“Well,” she replied.  “I suppose it could be.”

“Shut up!” exclaimed Irileth, trying to recover the guard’s attention.  “The glory of killing it is ours, if you are with me!  Now what do you say?  Shall we go kill us a dragon?”  With her energy and authority renewed, her tone had risen considerably.

“YEAH!”  The guards responded in kind, suddenly inspired—if only for the moment.

“That’s it?” asked Trygve.  “No strategy?  No plan?”

“Oh for the love of Talos,” muttered Lydia under her breath.

Irileth scowled but had no response.  Trygve continued, completely unabashed by her hostility toward him.  “We should form a perimeter,” he said.  “Try to get him to land.   Then we can move in.  I’ll take half and you take half of the guards,” he explained.  “Elspeth, you and Lydia should rush to the tower.  Between your wards and her shield, you’ve got the best protection.”   The women nodded in agreement.

The Dunmer housecarl continued to look sternly at Trygve, but nodded in agreement.   “Let’s move!” she ordered.

Elspeth looked back once more at Onmund, who was being directed by Hrongar.  They caught each other’s glance one last time before Elspeth exited Whiterun’s gates with the guards.  Once outside, they ran westward across the tundra.  Elspeth and Trygve were the fastest and led the group with Lydia and Irileth close at their heels.  They stopped at a rock formation, just north of the tower and looked around while they waited for the rest of the guards to catch up.

“What if I got you a crossbow?” asked Trygve, turning to Elspeth suddenly.

“Let it go Trygve,” she replied, shaking her head.

Lydia and Irileth scanned the area.  “It looks like a dragon’s been here,” said Irileth, gesturing toward the burning tower and the crumbling walls.  But I don’t see—”

“Shhhh!” said Trygve.  “Can you hear that?” he whispered.

The group fell silent and remained still.  But Elspeth craned her neck and walked around the rock wall ahead of the group.  There was a sound in the distance, a dull yet familiar screech.  “Here he comes,” she cried as she saw the dragon circling the mountains past the tower.

“This is it!” cried Irileth as she gestured toward Trygve.  Half the guards followed Irileth and the other half followed Trygve as they formed a perimeter around the area surrounding the tower and readied their bows.  Lydia and Elspeth ran straight ahead, where they found several scorched bodies and were nearly barreled over by a guard running coming down the stone staircase leading into the tower.

“What are you doing here?” he exclaimed in sheer, almost mindless panic.  “Go back—just go back!”

Elspeth went to respond—he was unarmed but for his axe.  She told him to get a bow and arrows and directed him toward Trygve whose group was steadily approaching the tower.  The guard looked at her as if she were mad and crouched down below the tower entrance behind the stone steps, clutching his head in his hands.  Elspeth shook her head and waved Lydia toward her.  The two of them backed up against the tower wall and looked toward the mountains.  The dragon was nowhere and so they waited in silence.

Elspeth breathed in hard against the nervous feeling creeping up from her stomach into her chest.  Her usual zeal had sustained her to Dragonsreach on Hrongar’s summon and followed her out along the tundra.  But as she stood there waiting with Lydia, the realization that she was going to face the dragon again began to sink in and she was becoming terrified.  At least this time she was armed.  She looked back at Lydia whose eyes betrayed no fear, though her lip twitched a bit when she caught Elspeth’s gaze.

Just as she was about to start bouncing on her heels to stave off the growing fear in her gut, the dragon’s shriek sounded again—louder this time.  He was closer now.  They braced themselves and within moments the dragon’s shadow passed.

Looking up, they saw him swoop in and breathe fire across the tundra as the guards that Trygve and Irileth were leading pummeled him with arrows.  The arrows pierced the dragon’s skin but appeared to do little damage as he continued to plunge through the air, pausing only to spray fire at the guards.  Elspeth saw Irileth throw up a ward, which the dragon’s fire was unable to penetrate for a moment, forcing him to pause and giving Elspeth and Lydia a very small window of opportunity to run and attack from below.  The dragon’s underbelly seemed softer, more vulnerable than the thick, scaled skin that covered its back.  Elspeth tossed ice-spikes, praying that the dragon might be weak to frost spells, while Lydia nailed him in the middle of the chest with poisoned arrows.

The dragon howled in what sounded like pain and, whipping his neck away, flew straight up in the air and out of sight for just a moment before landing on the tower.  They felt the crash and heard a loud THWACK, followed by a high-pitched wail.

“AAA-UUUUGGH!!!”

“Vilhelm!” screamed Lydia, recognizing the guard who had fallen, apparently knocked from the very top of the tower.

Elspeth didn’t waste any time.  She ran back into the tower and scaled the stairs.  The dragon, having recovered some strength, was hovering just above when she arrived.  She threw up a strong ward, which kept himfrom causing a lot of damage but didn’t let her get very close.   The heat was unbearable and when the dragon paused, she knew she had but a moment and, once again, threw as many ice-spikes as she could.

The dragon howled again and flew downward, right toward the guards who were approaching from the left. Elspeth looked over the edge of the tower saw a figure—Trygve she hoped—snatch and fire several arrows in succession.  It had to be Trygve.  The first arrow caught the dragon in the face, the second in the neck, and the ones that followed tore holes in his wings, causing him to come crashing down.

The dragon was grounded.  Yet the worst was not quite over.  He could no longer fly but still had complete control over the rest of his body and spewed a wall of flame that sent Irileth and most of the guards back.   They had him trapped between two crumbled stone walls, but his fire kept the guards at bay.  As they reformed, Elspeth ran back down to the second floor of the tower to the arched opening on the tower’s eastern wall.  The dragon was below but she needed to bring him just a bit closer.  Scanning the area, she found Lydia looking up at her.  She drew her sword and gestured to her friend to run to the right and back toward the tower.  With her father’s shield protecting her, Lydia ran along the parapet of one of the crumbled tower walls and drew the dragon’s fire.  As his head came back up close to the wall of the tower, Elspeth jumped.

She broke her ankle when she landed on his neck and felt the sharp scales pierce her armor as she fell forward.  She cried out in pain but managed to grab one of his horns and steadied herself just long enough to jam her sword into his head.  The dragon shrieked for one last time before whipping his neck as hard as he could, sending Elspeth flying and knocking her head against the wall.

The guards and Irileth approached slowly and looked around cautiously as Lydia and Tryve hurried over to Elspeth’s motionless body.

“Elspeth!” screamed Lydia, as she scrambled into her satchel for healing potions.  “Oh gods, no!”

“Calm down,” said Trygve, his voice was firm, though not exactly comforting.  “She’s alive.”  Lydia watched in utter disbelief as Trygve held out his hands and applied healing spells first to Elspeth’s head and then to her leg, though she only stirred slightly.

“Wait, you’re a mage?”

“Give her a moment,” said Trygve, ignoring the question.  “She’s healing and she hit the side of her head pretty hard—”

“LYDIA!” screamed Irileth.  “WATCH OUT!”

Lydia looked up at the dead, now disintegrating, dragon.  As Trygve threw up a ward and Lydia covered Elspeth with her father’s shield, they watched as the carcass burned like flimsy parchment catching a flying spark from a nearby bonfire.  The heat from this was mild and she directed her attention back to Elspeth who was still out cold.   Trygve put his hands back on her head, checking to see if he missed an injury.  He couldn’t find anything wrong, but before he could say anything to reassure Lydia, the dragon’s carcass—the charred bones and scorched scales that were left behind—began to glow with a bright white, blinding light.   Lydia and Trygve shielded their eyes and looked t each other in astonishment as they found themselves enveloped in a beautiful swirl of orange and yellow and purple and blue light.


	4. Don't be Shocked by the Sound of My Voice

Elspeth’s eyes flew open.  She recalled the warmth of a very strong healing spell penetrating her head followed by another sensation.  Something that infused every aspect of her being.  It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t exactly pleasurable either.  It was powerful and strange and Elspeth, who was familiar with all matter of magika, was scared.  Looking up, she saw only Trygve’s smug face looking back at her.  She drew her arm up and pushed his hands away as she scrambled to her feet.

“What did you do to me Trygve?” she bellowed, her voice tinged with both anger and fear.

“I felt it,” he said as he looked up at her.  “She…it went…and I felt it.  When I was healing her.”  He was looking back down at his hand, stupefied, and seemed not to realize that she was upset at him.

Elspeth barely noticed the guards and Lydia looking at her in utter astonishment.   She was focused on Trygve.  He’d done something to her—she was convinced.  The sensation of whatever had infused her body continued to flow through her and she was terrified.  She wanted to throttle him, to throw him across the tundra.  As she stood there entertaining thoughts of hurting him, she suddenly recalled something, the word that had mysteriously echoed in her head in Bleak falls Barrow several months before.  There was an urge, an urge to scream that seemed to draw strength from whatever was coursing through her and before she could stop it, she was shouting.

“FUS!”

With a fury unlike anything she had ever felt, the word came out and caused Trygve to stagger back.  Behind her she could hear the guards chattering and cheering as Lydia approached her.

“Elspeth,” she said, almost breathlessly, clapping her hands together at her chest.

But Elspeth could only glare.  She was even more frightened now, and confused.  “What is going on?” she screamed.  “What did he do to me?”

“He didn’t do anything.  He was just healing you.” Lydia explained as she put her hand out to touch her and pull her close.  “You absorbed the dragon’s soul.  Elspeth, I think you’re Dragonborn.”

“Dragonborn?  Like…” her voice trailed off as she recalled the stories of the Dragonborn that Runa had told her when she was young.  She looked around at the guards who were gawking at her.

“I can’t believe it,” said Pedr.  “You’re Dragonborn.  You stole his power.  Just like the dragon slayers in the old legends.  That’s what you did right?  You took his soul?”

“What’s dragonborn?” asked Gregar before Elspeth could respond.  By now everyone had gathered, crowding her, and adding to the anxiety raging in her gut.

“My grandfather told stories of the Dragonborn,” said Bejla.  “Those born with the Dragon Blood like old Tiber Septim himself.”

“I never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons and stealing its power,” protested Gregar.

“There weren’t any dragons then you idiot.  They’re just coming back now for the first time in…forever.” Pedr clearly was irritated by the apparent ignorance of his fellow guards.  “You’ve been awfully quiet Irileth.  What do you make of all this?”

Irileth frowned as she looked over the cluster of guards around Elspeth.  “I see a dead dragon.  Now we know that we can kill them.  Someone who can put down a dragon is enough for me.”  She nodded an appreciative, yet stern, gesture toward Elspeth.  “I think you would all do better to trust in the strength of your sword arm than wet yourselves over legends and tales.”

“You wouldn’t understand, you ain’t a Nord,” said Pedr.

“I’m not a Nord,” said Elspeth, trying desperately to diffuse her angst.

“No!” he agreed.  “But you’re Dragonborn.”  He and the guards stared at Elspeth for a bit longer before Irileth commanded them back to Whiterun.

“We should probably get back and talk to Balgruuf,” said Lydia, as Elspeth nodded in agreement.  They looked around and found Trygve who had wandered away from the group and was inspecting the dragon’s carcass.

“What are you doing?” asked Elspeth as she gathered her sword from the pile of dragon bones.

“Collecting bones and scales,” he said, excitedly.  “I’m going to study their properties.  I bet I can make a poison that will disintegrate—”

“Let’s go!” called Lydia who was eager to present the newly dragon-ensouled Elsepth to Balgruuf and not at all interested in Trygve’s alchemy pursuits.

As they turned back toward the city, Elspeth reached out and grabbed Trygve’s elbow.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“Oh,” he replied.  “You didn’t yell at me.   That was a shout, called a Th’uum.” He wasn’t being condescending, he was simply matter-of-fact, which was somehow more annoying.

“All right then,” she said slowly.  “I am sorry I th’uumed at you.”

“Come on!” said Lydia impatiently.

As they walked along the tundra, Elspeth recalled smashing her ankle when she jumped from the dragon—but she felt nothing at all in her leg or in her head for that matter.  Ther was no trace of discomfort or any remaining sensation.   This was not a result of a potion; even her own healing spells were not so seamless.  Had Trygve done that?  She looked back at him as he staggered along—his arms laden with dragon bones and scales—and simply shook her head. When they arrived at the stables, Skulvar and Jervar greeted them, as well as several more guards who looked upon Elspeth with wonder and trepidation.  She didn’t like it.

Up by Breezehome, Onmund was waiting and when he saw the group enter, he ran up and took Elspeth in his arms, lifting her off the ground.  “Is it true?” he asked.  “Did you take the dragon’s soul?  Are you Dragonborn?”

Elspeth gripped him tightly; hearing him say it brought the reality of what was happening into sharp focus.  If she was nervous before, she was terrified now.  “I don’t know,” she replied, trembling a bit now.  “I knocked my head.  Then I felt something.  Then I shouted and Trygve said it was a Th’uum and….”  When she looked back up, she saw that his face was filled with reverence.  Somehow, the amazement in his eyes was even more unsettling that what she felt as citizens looked on.

“We need to go to Dragonsreach,” she said, as he nodded in agreement.

“I’ll wait for you at home,” he said.  His veneration had given way to his normal look of affection and she relaxed in his arms.  “You’ll be hungry.  I get some—”  Suddenly, he was interrupted by a crack of thunder so loud, it sent a shudder all throughout Whiterun.

_“DOHVAHKIIN”_

The call was powerful and left the group that had gathered outside of Breezehome stunned and speechless.

It was Trygve who broke silence.  “The Greybeards!” he exclaimed.  “They’re summoning you.  We need to see the Jarl.”

Elspeth knew about the Dragonborn, but had only heard the Greybeards mentioned in passing.  They were important, but beyond that she was unaware.  She drew herself closer to Onmund.

“Go,” he whispered.  “I’ll be waiting for you.”  He turned her gently out of his arms toward Trygve and Lydia, who flanked her as they made their way through the city.  People turned their attention and she ignored their whispers and stares, trying desperately not to let the enormity of what was happening cripple her.

Things were no different in Dragonsreach.  The guards, the servants, even Balgruuf’s children—who could otherwise never be bothered to settle down for any reason—stopped and stared as Elspeth walked by.  Up by the Throne, Hrongar stepped forward to greet them, his eyes practically sparkling as he regarded Elspeth.

“We were just talking about you,” he said.  “My brother needs a word with you.”

She looked up at Balgruuf who was leaning back in his throne, his face lit up by the biggest smile she’d ever seen on the Jarl.  “Irileth tells me you slayed that dragon.  But word amongst the guards is that you absorbed its power.  Is this true?”

“Apparently,” she replied.  “I felt something, the dragon’s soul…or power, I guess.  And then I shouted.”

“Dragonborn,” he exclaimed as he clapped his hands in front of his face.  “And the Greybeards are summoning you.”

“This hasn’t happened in centuries,” said Hrongar.  “Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora.”

“Hrongar, calm yourself!” The Jarl’s steward was interjecting.  “What does all this Nord nonsense have to do with Elspeth?  I see no evidence of—”

“Nord nonsense!” exclaimed Hrongar.  “Why you puffed up, ignorant…these are our sacred traditions that go all the way back to the founding of the first empire!”

“Oh Hrongar, go easy on him,” said Balgruuf.  “Proventus, bring me the Axe of Whiterun.” The steward left and the group looked around at each other, a bit bewildered.  When he returned, Balgruuf stood and held the axe out to her.  “You’ve done a great service for me and my city, Elspeth.  This is the Axe of Whiterun.  By my rights as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun.  It’s the greatest honor that’s within my power to grant.”

There was an audible gasp as she accepted the axe.  Balgruuf didn’t appoint Thanes.  It was truly an honor.  The natural way that Balgruuf regarded Elspeth eased her nervousness somewhat.  His admiration seemed less awe-struck and more respectful.  Or perhaps she was just tired.

“I’ll alert the guards of your new title, of course.  Wouldn’t want you to think you’re part of the common rabble, now would we?”

“I like the common rabble,” she replied.

“Of course you do,” he smirked.  He really enjoyed this one.  “Lydia!” he said, as he rubbed his chin.  “You are now officially Elspeth’s housecarl.  I’m pleased to welcome you back.”

“Of course my lord,” she said; she was practically bouncing on her heels.  There was no one in Dragonsreach more excited at this turn of events than she was at that moment.

Balgruuf leaned back and smiled warmly, obviously happy to have Lydia back in his court and with his decision to make Elspeth his Thane.  His eyes scanned the room and stopped at Trygve.  “And who is this?” he asked.

“Jarl Balgruff.”  Tryve’s voice was firm, yet deferential, as he approached the throne.  “I am Trygve Wartooth of Riften, Son of Birkir, Thane to Jarl Laila Lawgiver, and protector of the dragonborn.”

Balgruuf narrowed his eyes at Trygve and pursed his lips.  “Just your name would have sufficed,” he said.

“He’s also Toki’s cousin,” Elspeth interjected.

“See, now that’s important.”  Balgruuf smiled knowingly at Elspeth.

Trygve was beginning to understand why Lydia approached her duties so casually.  But when he looked over at her, he noted that she was standing attentively, all traces of her typical informality were gone.  Instead, it seemed, Balgruuf and Elspeth had their own rapport.

Balgruuf cleared his throat and recovered a more formal demeanor as he addressed them  again.  “Pardon me, Trygve Wartooth, Thane of the Rift.  Your commitment to the Dragonborn is commendable and you are, of course, welcome to avail yourself of my court’s resources.”

“My Lord,” said Proventus suddenly.  “Won’t Jarl Laila be rather upset that you’ve appropriated a member of her court for your own?”

“She’ll forgive me,” replied Balgruuf and after a brief pause, continued.  “She always does.”

“Next time she has an itch she can’t scratch,” muttered Hrongar, shocking Trygve who looked back at him, absolutely appalled.  No one else was surprised.

“When will you leave for High Hrothgar?” asked Balgruuf, ignoring his brother.

Elspeth looked down at her cuirass, which was covered with rips and tears from where the dragon’s scales had torn into it.   “I’ve got to return this armor to Adrienne to fix,” she explained.  “In a couple of days, I suppose.  Unless there is something you need?”

“No,” he said as he leaned back in his throne.  “You should not waste any time.   It’s a great honor to be summoned. I envy you, you know.  To climb the 7,000 steps again.  I made the pilgrimage once; did you know that?”

Elspeth wondered how on Nirn she would possibly know something like that that but before she could say something inappropriate to that effect, Balgruuf continued.  “High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place…very disconnected from the troubles of this world.  I sometimes wonder if the Greybeards even notice what’s going on down here.  The Stormcloaks.  The Thalmor.  They haven’t seemed to care before.”  He sighed.  “But…do not concern yourself with that.  Go to High Hrothgar.  Learn what the Greybeards can teach you.”

She nodded appreciatively but before she could respond, Trygve spoke up again.  “Excuse me my lord, but when queries arrive from the other holds seeking information about what happened today, I would advise leaving out identifying information as you respond.  We can’t risk the Thalmor apprehending the Dragonborn.”

“But what would the Thalmor want with the Dragonborn?” asked Proventus.  “Surely, they have other, more pressing concerns than this ancient Nord…tradition.”  He was careful not to let his voice indicate any disrespect.

Trygve turned sharply and glowered at the steward.  “Those said to be Dragonborn,” he began, “were chosen and blessed by Akatosh himself, endowed with dragon blood.  Tiber Septim was Dragonborn.  The arrival of a Dragonborn now, someone perhaps chosen by Akatosh could lend credibility—albeit indirectly—to the divinity of Talos, which would undermine the very foundation of the Concordat.”

“I could do that?” Elspeth asked, her nervousness giving way to some excitement.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Trygve replied firmly.  “All I am saying is that it might be prudent not to draw too much attention to our tiny Breton here.”

Balgruuf looked askance at the peculiar Nord in front of him before nodding his head approvingly.  The boy was a thinker and he had to respect that.  “Thank you, Trygve.  I appreciate your… _attentiveness_  to the seriousness of this matter.”

Elspeth felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her.  “I need to go to bed,” she said abruptly, gesturing to Lydia.

“As you wish my Thane,” said Lydia, grinning as she put her arm around Elspeth and led her away from the throne.  Trygve nodded farewell to the rest of the court and trotted along behind the women.

Balgruuf stood as the group left, his eyes not leaving until they exited Dragonsreach.

“She’s cute, no?” asked Hrongar.

“Yes, she’s adorable,” replied Balgruuf facetiously.  “I want to put her in my pocket and feed her taffy treats.”  He turned and rolled his eyes at his brother.  “Proventus!” he said suddenly.  “Our Dragonborn requires better armor.  Summon Eorland Grey Mane first thing tomorrow morning.”  Proventus paused—his daughter Adrienne generally handled most of the court’s needs, outfitting the guard and such.   “It’s not personal,” said Balgruuf sensing his unease.  “Skyforge is legendary, much like the Dragonborn.”

*****

Back in Breezehome, Onmund had laid out leftover stew and mead.  The group chatted briefly about Elspeth’s new title and their plans to leave for High Hrothgar and then ate silently as the evening’s battle caught up with them and its subsequent aches and pains settled in.

“Trygve,” said Elspeth suddenly.  “Are you a mage?”

“No,” he said.

“The healing spells you cast were masterful,” she said.  “I can’t feel anything, not even where I hit my head.”

“And you cast wards,” said Lydia.

“I was trained in Riften,” he explained, pushing the last of his stew around the bowl with a crust of bread.  “I have a lot of respect for the restoration school.  Skyrim could use more healers.  Wards were fairly easy to pick up after I mastered the healing spells.  But I am  _not_  a mage,” he said derisively.

Lydia looked over at Onmund but he appeared not to notice or care about Trygve’s reaction to the mage question.  He was focused on Elspeth, refilling her tankard and making certain that she had enough to eat.  All of Skyrim seemed to go away when they were together.  It warmed her heart, but also made her sad.  Hrongar would be over tonight—likely for the last time.  She nodded good-night as they cleaned up their dishes and went to bed.  Trygve retired as well and when she was alone at the table, Lydia put her head in her arms and waited.

Upstairs, Onmund was busy tidying the room and inspecting the tears in her armor as Elspeth got into bed.  He was a bit restless still, but followed her under the covers and wrapped his arms around her as she put her head on his chest.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his voice betrayed both genuine concern but also some enthusiasm.  The Dragonborn was a legend and he was holding her in his arms.

“Spent,” she replied.  “I think I’m past feelings.”  She could sense his agitation and looked up at him.   “You’re really excited about this, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I’m just thinking about the letter I am going to write to my parents this year.”  He squeezed her tightly and kissed her head.  “Dear Ma and Da…”  He was almost giddy as he began his speech.  “This letter is to let you know that I am still alive and still a mage.  I’m living in Whiterun now, working a forge.  Also, I’m bedding the dragonborn.  I guess I’m not such a bad Nord after all, eh.  Sincerely, your loving son Onmund.”

She giggled as she rolled away from him but her anxiety was only momentarily abated.  She stared up at the ceiling and her face darkened again.  “This is really happening,” she said.

Onmund leaned up on his elbow and pulled her close again.  “Is this your mentor’s vision?  It’s not the Psijic Order, then?”

“Well the Psijics never seemed to fit the vision; they—”  She stopped.  She had never considered that the Psijic order was related to Xeri’s vision.  They were mages and that association was with her mother.  The vision involved her father, although Xeri could never say  _how_  it involved him.  Thinking of Bedyn, she suddenly recalled something he told her about the Blades, how before they were protectors of the Septim Emperors, they were the original dragon slayers.  She shuddered.  My gods, she thought.  This was the vision.  She turned back to Onmund.  Could she tell him?

“I think it is.  The vision was associated with my father.”  She stopped and swallowed hard against the anxiety in her throat.  She was treading very close to things she wasn’t supposed to reveal.

“What does your father have to do with the dragonborn?” Onmund asked.

“He was a blade,” she said.  “A long time ago.”

“I see…and the blades were the dragon slayers.”  Onmund’s curiosity was sated and he was excited again.  “It makes perfect sense.  This is what you’ve been working toward.”

She nodded her head and as another wave of anxiety over took her, she moved back into Onmund’s arms.  “What am I supposed to do?   I don’t even know what it means.  Just that it’s huge.”  She bit her lip, uncertain if she wanted to continue in this vein.  “I’m nervous,” she admitted finally.

“You’re not nervous,” protested Onmund.  “You’re terrified.”  He moved her hair out of her face.  “Don’t overwhelm yourself with what you’re supposed to do just yet.  The Greybeards will guide you.  They’re the next step.”  Elspeth nodded and Onmund continued to talk.  “My father sent me to High Hrothgar when I was seventeen.  He hoped meditating and learning about The Voice would be satisfy my desire to study magic.”

“You’ve been to High Hrothgar?” Elspeth was surprised.  “You never told me that.”

“Oh, I didn’t make it.”  He laughed softly.  “I spent a week in Helgen drinking juniper berry mead and kissing a beautiful young Imperial girl named Prisca.”

“You never told me about her.  Was she your first love?”

“No,” he replied.  “She was sweet.  But it was never meant to be.  However, she was the one who convinced me not to give up on magic.  So, I went home and told my parents that I would be attending the College and there was nothing to they could do to stop me.”  He sighed.  “I do regret not making the pilgrimage—it seems like something I should have done.”

Elspeth sat up suddenly.  “Do you want to come with us?” she asked.

Onmund looked at her and pursed his lips, not quite certain how he should respond.  “I thought four was too many,” he said after several moments.

“Oh don’t worry about that; I’m fairly certain that Lydia’s going to push Trygve down the mountain.”  She smiled weakly.  “But, if you want to, you can come.”

“And do something that would make my father proud?” he asked.  “No.  But…do you want me to?”  He looked at her intently.  On this matter, her face was impossible to read.  “Tell me,” he said.  “Don’t make me guess.  I’ll guess wrong.”

She breathed in deeply and thought about this.  Onmund would be good company but she liked having him in Whiterun.  Knowing he was there, working the forge, teaching Lars magic—she felt like she could see something beyond her next task.  Before this, there was never a future past the nebulous thing Xeri called destiny.  Now, there was.  But it scared her to admit this and she didn’t know what to say.  “I like having you here,” she said finally.  “It feels….” She paused and bit her lip.  “I feel…sort of grounded with you here.  At the College I was anxious all the time and I don’t feel like that with you here.  And I think you should stay and keep Lars out of trouble.  But if you really want to—”

He interrupted her nervous explanation with a long kiss.  “I’m happy to stay,” he said.  She nodded and they snuggled down into the blankets to sleep.  As they dozed off they heard the door open and heavy boots stepping across the floor.

“Hrongar,” whispered Elspeth.  “I wonder how that will go.”

*****

Lydia normally waited in bed for Hrongar so he was surprised to see her sitting at the table when he arrived.  And then he wasn’t.  He recalled her enthusiasm when her duty as Elspeth’s housecarl was announced.  There was nothing to indicate any conflict in her mind.  Or her heart.  She was duty bound and driven and she always had been.  If it hadn’t been Balgruuf, it would have been the Companions or the Legion or, he shuddered to think, the Stormcloaks.

She didn’t look up until he sat across from her.  Her face was weary.  Weary and sad; and she looked absolutely beautiful.  “Well,” he said.  “You’re back in my brother’s court.  I hope you’re happy.”

His tone wasn’t harsh, but his words cut into Lydia’s heart anyway.  “I never intended to leave the court.  You know that,” she replied, her voice trembling.

Hrongar nodded and looked down as he traced the cracks in the wood table with his finger.   He had to take the lead on this.  They had been getting along so well since she’d returned from Riften.  But as she accepted her place back in Balgruuf’s court today he realized that Lydia would play this game indefinitely.  And, despite the immense amount of affection between them, it was a game.  That much became clear as they implicated others in their secret, Elspeth, Onmund, Trygve.  He was sick of it, sick of the rules, sick of the way they acted around other people.   He wanted to walk to House Battle Born with Lydia on his arm and greet her with kisses under the Gildergreen.

“I love you Lydia,” he said sadly.  “I’ve loved you for so long, but I can’t keep doing this.”

“I know,” she whispered as tears ran down her cheeks.  “I’m sorry.”  And that’s all she had to say.  She knew this day would come but she always thought there would be more…more  pleading or wailing…on both sides.  But there was none of that.  There was simply a painful silence and one less secret to keep.

Hrongar pursed his lips.  He expected something else; he wanted something else.  He wanted to know that he was still important.  But as he looked around the house, at all the clutter–all the new things that had accumulated in the last several months without him, he realized he wasn’t.  _Had he ever been?_

“Travel safely,” he said quietly, swallowing against the raw, dry ache in his throat.  With that he left Breezehome.  This time, he didn’t stop in the threshold to check if the road was clear before exiting.  It didn’t matter anymore.


	5. Back to Save the Universe

“Shameful! If any of you were in Skyrim you would be lucky if they called you milk-drinker. Now plank!”

Oh, Xeri how I’ve missed you. When they approached the northern end of Bruma, Nerussa couldn’t help but grin at that familiar—yet dreadful—militant voice. As they rode into view, Iona flinched at the sight of ten young Nords clad in little more than tattered rags holding themselves in plank positions, their muscles quivering as their bleeding knuckles pressed into the frozen rocky ground.

Their tormenter, the tall Dunmer with slicked back white hair and features as harsh as her commands gave a brief glance over her shoulder, but didn’t miss a beat. “You are all a disgrace. Thankfully, this Altmer has brought me a real Nord warrior. To the trees!” With a wave of her hand, the Nords scrambled from their plank positions to the cluster of thin-trunked trees lining the road that led to town.

Nerussa barely seemed to notice, but Iona was horrified as the young men and women began to kick and hit the trees as hard as they could, alternating between their forearms, their fists, and their shins. The repeated crack of their unarmored skin against the trunks of the trees sent a shudder down her spine. Her own training had been difficult, but she had never seen anything like this. In Skyrim, her training was done in full armor, and they practiced hand-to-hand combat against burlap dummies—and each other. But this, this looked like torture.

“What are they doing?” she asked as she and Nerussa dismounted their horses.

“They’ll kick and hit the trees until they crack the trunk of the tree,” explained Xeri.

“What happens if they hurt themselves before they crack the tree?” she asked.

“They’ll heal themselves and keep going,” replied the Dunmer her voice growing increasingly irritated.

“That so cruel,” she exclaimed as she looked at the men and women, looking pained and humiliated while they thrashed against the trees.

Nerussa cringed. During their journey, she had been so focused on her plan, on how she was going to approach Xeri and Evangeline, that she simply forgot to warn Iona of the cardinal rule when dealing with Xeri Tharys. Never question her methods.

“Excuse me?” Xeri stepped up to Iona and glowered, narrowing her eyes so that they were just thin red slits looking angrily at the Nord who dared challenge her.

But Iona was unwavering. “That looks more like torture than training.”

“And if my pups are ever tortured, maybe it won’t seem quite as bad,” replied Xeri though Iona still looked doubtful. Xeri shook her head. “I train them to work through pain and more pain. I don’t know what kinds of sweet rolls and snuggles you’re being prepared for up north, but down here, I prepare my boys and girls to suffer. Because they will. Besides, can you think of a better way to get a Nord to practice magic?”

Without giving Iona a chance to respond, she quickly turned to Nerussa and looked her over. “You’re alive,” she said, a slight grin just barely escaping her lips before she scowled again. “I told Elspeth to send for me.

“And I told her not to,” said Nerussa calmly. “When are you going to learn, Xeri? The steward’s directives always trump those of the housecarl.” She knew how to handle the obstinate old Dunmer warrior woman. At the very least, as the long-awaited steward she had the upper hand.

Xeri grunted and shook her head. “Let me clean this place up,” she said. “I’ll meet you both by the main gate.”

Iona sidled up to Nerussa as they walked their horses over toward the stables, her jaw still slightly agape over what had just happened. “That was Elspeth’s mentor?”

Nerussa nodded. “Mentor. Guardian.” She paused and gestured in the direction of the group by the trees. “Those kids are lucky.”

“Lucky?” she replied in disbelief.

“They get to go home at night,” explained Nerussa. “Elspeth was with Xeri all the time.”

“She didn’t even ask about Elspeth!” Iona was simply baffled.

“She’s empathic. She would have known if I came bearing terrible news.”

“She doesn’t seem very compassionate,” protested Iona.

Nerussa shook her head and smiled. “It’s an elven thing and Xeri happens to be particularly astute in that regard. It’s not empathy the way most people experience it; the best way to describe it is…basically she experiences others' emotions as if they were her own. If it helps, she knows exactly how all her charges feel about her. Their hostility becomes hers.”

Iona found this oddly comforting until she realized that Xeri probably could not care less about how others regarded her and that she probably thrived on such hostility. At that moment, Xeri caught up and stomped just ahead of the other two women as they neared Bruma’s main gate.

“I want to hear about your visions,” said Nerussa as her stride met Xeri’s. “And I need to see Evangeline.” She nodded cordially at the guard who let them inside.

“I intend for us to leave immediately,” Xeri replied. “Bruma has so far escaped close Thalmor scrutiny, but that can always change.” She paused for a moment and then asked, without bothering to look back at Iona, “Is your Nord coming?”

“No,” said Nerussa. “I’ll send her back to Skyrim.”

“Does she know about Elspeth?”

“Yes,” replied Nerussa, but before Xeri could object, she explained. “It’s fine. Iona is housecarl to the Thane who has been protecting me, Trygve Wartooth. You’d like him—well, as much as you’d like anyone. He’s a scout. Stealthy and deadly with a bow. I sent him back to Whiterun with Lydia and Elspeth.”

Xeri frowned but didn’t protest. “Very well,” she said although she disliked the idea of Elspeth having more than one companion—groups drew attention and that meant trouble. But she wasn’t going to argue with Nerussa. Not now. There would be plenty for them to quibble over on their journey to Frostcrag.

She led them to a small house on the south edge of the city. When she opened the door, a large Nord woman, tall with broad shoulders, greeted them. Her silver-streaked ebony hair was tied back in a loose bun and her face, though thin and wrinkled, was warm and kind. Iona smiled. After her interaction with Xeri, she was pleased to be in the company of kin.

“This is Nerussa. The Nord is Iona; she’s a housecarl,” said Xeri flatly as she hurried up the stairs, leaving them in the entrance of the house.

“Hello, I’m Runa,” she said as she shook their hands and led them to a small dining area. “Please sit. I’m making rabbit stew.” She looked around eagerly. “Is Elspeth with you?”

“She’s in Skyrim with Lydia. We’re leaving for Frostcrag Village immediately.” Xeri responded as she came back downstairs, her arms laden with satchels.

“You have to eat first,” Runa protested. “And I want to know how Elspeth is doing.”

“Runa, we can’t waste any—” Xeri was firm and Nerussa anticipated an argument as Runa stepped forward. But when the Nord crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes, the Dunmer backed down immediately and simply nodded. Nerussa, who couldn’t recall anyone silencing Xeri before, was impressed.

Runa set dishes out and served stew, freshly baked bread, and ale. She waited quietly but as soon as Nerussa ate her last spoonful of food, Runa inundated her with questions. Did Elspeth seem to like Skyrim? Was she getting along with Lydia? Did she look thin?

Nerussa chuckled quietly though she was secretly wanted to take this woman in her arms and kiss her. Whatever capacity for compassion and tenderness Elspeth retained under Xeri’s tutelage was likely a result of her influence. “Elspeth looks fine,” she said, leaving out that she was poisoned and unconscious when she first saw her. “She and Lydia appear to be quite close. She’s met a nice young man, a Nord from the College—”

“Mara’s mercy! A Nord mage?” asked Xeri sardonically. “I didn’t know they allowed such things in Skyrim.”

“Shut up Xeri,” said Runa, quietly but firmly. She turned back and smiled warmly at Nerussa. “Does she seem…” Runa paused, thinking carefully about what she was asking. “Content…at all?” Runa had hoped and prayed against all logic that Elspeth’s journey north would bring her something—comfort or some sense of purpose—that she never had in Cyrodiil.

Nerussa took a deep breath. “She went through a lot to find me. She’s a survivor and I think your Lydia is very protective of her. But Elspeth is…weary. And for someone so young….” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t think of what else to say. She’d sat with Elspeth but a few hours and in that short time she’d seen a young woman whose heart carried more than its fair sure of burdens. And Nerussa knew that she would continue to bear more.

“I expected as much,” Runa replied, her voice tinged with sadness. She wasn’t surprised, but hearing it nevertheless made her heart ache.

“All right!” Xeri’s harsh voice pulled them away from their thoughts. “We’re leaving in half an hour. Runa, Shazir will run drills with the pups. And you know what to do if anyone comes looking for the dissident elves.” Runa nodded and began to clear the table. “Iona,” Xeri continued, “if you won’t be accompanying us to Frostcrag, please feel free to stay here until you are ready to return to Skyrim. Runa will see that you are fed well before your journey.” She paused and looked at the housecarl intently. “Thank you,” she said finally, “for bringing Nerussa to me safely.” She gave a courteous nod to indicate her sincerity, though her countenance betrayed little appreciation.

When their satchels were packed and the horses loaded, Nerussa thanked Runa for dinner with a hug that was intended, not only to express gratitude for her hospitality, but also for the nurturing and kindness she had surely provided Elspeth. Runa and Iona saw them off at the gate before heading over to a tavern to exchange stories of Skyrim over mead.

Their ride was mostly uneventful. There were a couple of snow squalls that ripped through their path, which slowed them down somewhat. But otherwise, they journey through the mountains was simply cold. They discussed Xeri’s visions and Nerussa’s escape and evasion of the Thalmor and her life in Skyrim.

It was late when they arrived at the Village perimeter. Xeri could see the familiar Atronach guardians in the distance. As they made their way up the main path to the Spire, several young Bretons approached them. They were wearing armor that was unquestionably

Elven but in a style that distinguished it from that worn by Thalmor soldiers. They looked like guards, but Frostcrag never had guards apart from the Atronachs before.

“Halt! What business brings you here?” The Breton who spoke was the tallest of the three.

Xeri seemed to forget for a moment that she was no longer a resident of the Village and hadn’t been for over a decade. “I’m here to see Evangeline,” she replied as if there were no reason to ask.

“All visitors seeking an audience with Evangeline Sigeweald must first see the recruitment officer,” continued the tall one.

“Excuse me, what?” Xeri sounded a bit defensive, as if the young guard should have known and expected her.

Nerussa leaned in and whispered. “Need I remind you that you haven’t been here in over a decade?”

But before Xeri could answer they were interrupted by a familiar voice. “Xeri, you’re back!” They looked up to see an Altmer woman hurrying down the path toward them.

“Irinde!” exclaimed Xeri. “Thank gods.”

Irinde dismissed the guards and led them up the path toward the Spire. “There have been some changes,” she explained.

“I’ll say,” agreed Xeri, gesturing toward the guards. “Have there been raids?”

Irinde shook her head. “No, but it is a concern. Our numbers have surged. We’ve had to implement more formal security procedures just to keep things organized around here.” At the entry level of the Spire, she stopped. “Before we go inside, let me show you something.” She led the woman around the building and Xeri let out an audible gasp as she looked over the village.

The buildings that had once functioned as simple dormitories had been torn down and rebuilt as large, efficient barracks. The field, which was once simply a recreational area, was now a fully equipped training area. Mages were running drills on one side and on the other they were practicing powerful destruction magic against a row of focusing crystals. Almost all the mages in the village wore armor. They walked with purpose and stood at attention. They were soldiers. The rumors were true—Evangeline Sigeweald was training an army.

Irinde observed as Xeri’s eyes grew wide and her face brightened. “She did it. I knew she could do it.”

“Let’s go inside,” said Irinde, gesturing back toward the main entrance of the Spire.

When they stepped into the foyer, Xeri gasped yet again. The main floor, which had previously held only a couple of book shelves, display cases, and a summoning altar had been completely transformed into a war room. There were tables for strategy sessions, maps, crates and wardrobes with weapons, armor, and potions. And the wall that had once displayed decorative tapestries were banners representing Evangeline’s allies: Hammerfell was easily recognizable, but the others were unfamiliar although they depicted symbols of various cultures around Tamriel from places like Morrowind and Valenwood. Xeri surmised that they were from independent Tongs or militias but, having spent the last 10 years training Elspeth and other adolescents in Bruma, she was not well informed on state of Tamriel’s revolutionary armies. The center banner, the largest one was completely foreign to her. It was gold with a red and silver knot pattern around a blue circle.

Nerussa saw the look of confusion on Xeri’s face. She leaned over and whispered, “The Psijic Order.”

“The ones who contacted Elspeth?” On their journey, Nerussa told Xeri of Elspeth’s endeavors at the College. “Why are they here?”

Nerussa shrugged but before she could respond, their attention was diverted by a bevy of excitement from the summoning alter at the far end of the room.

“Nerussa! Xeri! Oh my gods!” Evangeline’s voice echoed throughout the room. “Out of my way!” she shouted as she pushed through a throng of mages who had gathered around the alter where she had been working. She rushed down the ramp that connected the altar area with the main room and threw her arms around Nerussa. “You’re alive!” she exclaimed, her voice muffled as she pressed her face into the Altmer’s robe, gripping her tight. “I am so, so sorry,” she whispered.

When she pulled back, her face was drawn, betraying over twenty-five years of guilt, regret, and sorrow. Nerussa smiled and pushed Evangeline’s dark auburn hair out of her eyes as she smiled warmly at her. “You’ve nothing to be sorry about my dear. Elspeth found me. Everything is happening as it’s supposed to.” Evangeline nodded and Nerussa continued, “We do need to talk, however.”

“Yes, yes…we have so much to discuss,” agreed Evangeline. “We’ll confer in my study.” She stepped back and smoothed her robe down after wiping her face with the back of her wrist, catching the tears that had welled up in her eyes.

“What are you looking at?” Xeri spat at several mages who stopped to gawk at the emotionally charged reunion. When they scattered away, she turned to Evangeline. “This place is incredible!”

“Yes, well after you left I immediately sent some mages to Hammerfell. Gaining their support was easy. General Decianus felt he owed it to me. Most of our recruits go there. We’ve also allied with some small militias around Tamriel—guerilla types who occasionally manage to distract the Thalmor. But we got a boon last year when we were contacted by the Psijic Order after the purge at Arcane—oh and I forgive you Xeri for not telling me that Elspeth survived that, only because I had no idea she was there at the time.”

Xeri looked awkward for just a moment before responding. “So, you know about the Order’s interest in Elspeth?”

“They told me that they’d hoped to find someone at the university, a particularly talented destruction mage—that probably should have been a clue. Anyway, after they failed to do that, they came here to see what sort of resources I might be able to offer. We’ve been collaborating since then. However, it’s only been in the last several months that we realized that the mage they were seeking was Elspeth.”

She stopped just outside the entrance of her suite and looked at Xeri intently. “Xeri, I thought it was the vision. I thought…I hoped that meant you’d bring her back here. But the Order seems to think she should be in Skyrim although no one can explain to me why.” Her voice quivered a bit. Evangeline had struggled for years to trust in the decision she made to let Xeri take Elspeth away. The past several months—after learning that Elspeth had made her way up to the College of Winterhold, that she had survived the purge at Arcane, that the Order had hoped she would lead their efforts against the Thalmor—had been almost unbearable. She held it together, for her mages, but it was difficult.

“Evangeline.” Nerussa saw the worry that had settled into Evangeline’s face and reached out to touch her arm. “Trust me when I say that Elspeth is exactly where she needs to be right now.” Evangeline nodded and led them into her suite, where an Altmer clad in a robe whose design reflected that of the large banner in the main room stood.

“This is Quaranir,” said Evangeline. “From the Psijic Order. Quaranir, this is Xeri Tharys, Elspeth’s mentor, and Nerussa, the Sigeweald’s steward.” She gestured for them to sit at the table, while she gathered goblets and poured wine.

Xeri frowned and gestured toward Quaranir, somewhat suspiciously. “Will he be joining us?”

“I think we need to figure out how the Order’s interest in Elspeth relates to your visions,” Evangeline replied.

“What makes you think it does?” said Xeri callously.

Evangeline’s lip twitched. She felt insulted, as if she had no business offering her perspective and Xeri was throwing her decade-long absence from Elspeth’s life in her face. Before she could respond, however, Nerussa spoke up.

“He should stay,” she said. “If the Order has an interest in opposing the Thalmor and in Elspeth, then it’s important that our intentions are in accord.”

“Very well,” agreed Xeri. She looked back over at Quaranir and asked, “What are your intentions with Elspeth?”

The Psijic sorcerer straightened himself up and looked intently at Xeri. His expression was severe, but his voice was calm and deliberate. “The Psijics are a monastic order,” he explained, “dedicated to the “Elder Way,” studying and meditating. We’re all trained in destruction magic, but we are not warriors. We’ve always opposed the Thalmor but thought we would fight them on a more…shall we say, ideological level—”

“Yeah, good luck with that.” Xeri grunted as she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in her seat. She had no patience for wars of words, political debate, and other such nonsense. The Thalmor were a menace, an extremely brutal menace and they had to be stopped, violently.

“Xeri….” Evangeline’s tone was impatient and pleading.

“No,” continued Quaranir, “she’s not wrong. Nerien, the Psijic who contacted Elspeth in Skyrim had been warning us for years that we needed warriors. We scoffed at him, for that is contrary to the old ways for it would make us prey to the dark forces.” With these last words his tone turned to slight mockery, the sound of disillusionment.

“You’ve turned from mysticism?” asked Nerussa. She was incredulous at the thought.

“No, not at all,” he replied. “We’ve just come to understand that it is inadequate for confronting the Thalmor.” He paused and took a sip of his wine before continuing. “In his correspondence, one of our scholars, Ilario, indicated that Arcane was just seething with anti-Thalmor sentiment. To Nerien he wrote that he had also had his eye on a particularly talented destruction mage though he never mentioned her by name. He said that she used to leave the University for weeks at a time for warrior training.”

With this everyone’s gaze turned to Xeri, whose earlier look of disdain was replaced with a one of smug self-satisfaction. She smirked and gestured for Quaranir to continue.

“Nerien intended to meet with her but before he could, the University was purged. Ilario and Relamus were dead. We assumed she was dead too. That’s when we came here.”

Nerussa leaned forward and looked intently at him. “And then you found Elspeth. Savos Aren told her it was the spell she cast, the Sorcerer’s Bane.”

Evangeline gasped. The Sorcerer’s Bane was used to destroy farms and villages all throughout Valenwood during the war. “Elspeth cast that spell? You never told me that!” she said angrily toward Quaranir, as she clapped a trembling hand over her mouth.”

“She cast it at the college,” he explained. “I believe she was just demonstrating.”

Xeri nodded, her face actually softening a bit. “Elspeth would never…” Xeri paused. Realizing just how little Evangeline knew about Elspeth made her a little sad. “In fact, she struggled with just knowing the spell,” she explained, trying to reassure Evangeline.

“Nerien felt and recognized it when it was cast,” Quaranir continued. “He approached her in Sarthaal where he sensed a great power was about to be unleashed.” He paused and sat back and rubbed his chin with his hand.

“And?” said Xeri impatiently. “Was a great power unleashed?”

“Not yet,” he replied. “She did find a powerful artifact.”

“When will you contact Elspeth again?” asked Nerussa sternly.

“When we have something to tell her.” Quaranir let out a deep breath. “We’re still trying to figure out exactly what that orb she found is. It’s powerful; that’s all we know. I don’t know if she should destroy it or somehow try to contain it. Nerien seems to think that because she found it, she must deal with it but I don’t know if that is absolutely necessary.” He looked worried.

Nerussa nodded in agreement. “Does the Order know that Elspeth is Evangeline’s daughter?” she asked.

Evangeline shook her head. “No,” she replied firmly.

“The Order supports the dissident elves and mages,” Quaranir explained. “But they are divided on the matter of whether we should intervene at the college and seek out the mage who survived Arcane. They think it’s just too dangerous. And as Elspeth is….” Quaranir’s voice trailed off uneasily for a moment before he cleared his throat and continued. “As Elspeth is Evangeline’s daughter—it would only be more so.”

Xeri didn’t like the way that Quaranir’s voice lagged over Elspeth’s name. She looked over at Nerussa who was also eyeing him. It was uncomfortably quiet for several moments until Xeri spoke up again. “Well this is all very well and good but what, if anything, does it have to do with my visions?”

“Yes,” agreed Evangeline emphatically. “And if Elspeth was meant to find Nerussa, why is she not here with her? If she was to follow Bedyn’s path, what does that have to do with Skyrim? Bedyn never went to Skyrim.” Evangeline stopped suddenly and tilted her head thoughtfully. “Nerussa, are there…are there Blades in Skyrim?”  
“You know,” said Xeri as her eyes widened. “I never even thought of that. Perhaps Elspeth—”

“Ladies please settle down,” said Nerussa calmly. “I believe Elspeth is exactly where she needs to be. I also think that the Order’s interest in her could very well concur with Xeri’s vision although I do not believe that should be pursued aggressively just yet.” Nerussa spoke slowly and deliberately and looked carefully at Quaranir, who was nodding his head in agreement.

Nerussa looked at Xeri and Evangeline who were staring at her with rapt attention. She breathed in deep against the growing anticipation in her chest. “In order for you to understand, there is something I need to tell you…about Maeve Sigeweald.”


	6. Analepsis A

**Cloud Ruler Temple—Third Era, Last Day**

“It doesn’t fit.  And it’s too heavy.” Maeve complained, wrenching her body around while Achille helped adjust the straps on her cuirass.

“It fits perfectly; it’s just not broken in” he replied as he grabbed the steel plates that covered the armor’s shoulders and yanked her upright, forcing her to stand up straight while she grunted and glared at him.  “It’s just for the ceremony.”  He stepped back and looked her over.  “Well,” he said approvingly.  “You look…just like the rest of us.” 

Maeve’s lips twitched as she looked at her friend.  Finally, she shook her head and let out an uncomfortable laugh.  “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Of course you can,” came another voice from behind her.  Baurus stepped up and hooked his arm around her elbow.  “This is your day too.  You’ll be named Champion of Cyrodiil and I bet you’ll be given the Imperial Dragon Armor, which is another set you won’t wear.”

She did not want this to be her day.  In fact, the very notion filled her with dread.  But looking up at Baurus and Achille, Maeve smiled in spite of herself.  “You can put that katana away, Achille.  I’ll wear this dreadful armor but I’m taking Oberon.”  She picked up her claymore and removed it from its scabbard.  “My uncle gave me this,” she said.  “And then I enchanted it with my first sigil stone. It seems fitting.”

“Did you ever find your uncle?” asked Achille quietly.  Dreams of Eduard Sigeweald, trapped in the planes of Oblivion had nearly driven Maeve mad.  Together they closed gate after gate trying to find him, but to no avail.

She shook her head.  “No,” she said quietly as she swallowed against a hard lump growing in her throat.  “When I returned to Frostcrag I hoped to find him there.  But…”  Her voice trailed off and she dropped her head.

Achille leaned over to pull her close to him, but they were interrupted by Captain Steffan who shouted at them to report to the front of the temple.

As they walked out, Baurus turned to Maeve.  “What are you going to do now?” he asked, his tone now somewhat more serious.  “Emperor Martin will want you to lead his personal Blade guard will he not?”

Maeve felt her heart clutch in her chest.  She chewed her bottom lip for a moment before she responded, speaking slowly so that she wouldn’t stumble over any of the words.  “I don’t believe that Isobel will ever allow that.”

“I’m sorry,” said Baurus.  “I shouldn’t have….”  He felt terrible.  He had hoped beyond all reason that Maeve would remain in their company when Martin took the throne, but he knew better and he should have kept his mouth shut.  They continued on in an uncomfortable silence until they exited they Great Hall and made their way outside, where the others had gathered around the Emperor and his betrothed, Isobel Goldwine.

Maeve gasped.  Martin looked resplendent in his formal Imperial robes.  Isobel wore a stunning silk black and burgundy dress with gold trim.   Maeve felt so awkward and unattractive in her uncomfortable armor that she was secretly pleased when Caroline brought Isobel her cloak and she didn’t have to look at the gorgeous woman in her royal finery.

“Are you okay?” asked Baurus.  He looked concerned.  “You look really sick all of a sudden.”

“I just….I just hate her so much.”  She didn’t even look at Baurus as she replied; she simply stared at the couple, neither of whom looked particularly happy.  It was, Maeve supposed, a somewhat sober occasion.  When would the celebrations begin?  When the Dragonfires were lit?  The Coronation?  Their wedding?  Thankfully, she would not be here for that.

“She looks like Ogre crap,” whispered Achille.  Baurus glowered at him although no one else heard.  Everyone’s attention was directed at Martin and Isobel.  Maeve turned to her friend and smiled weakly.  As she leaned forward, Achille caught her by the forearms and pressed his forehead to hers.   “You’ll always have me,” he whispered.  He said this often, always without pretense or awkwardness and it warmed her heart, but little else.

“All right,” she said.  “Let’s do this.”  They started to walk over to where the Blades had gathered in formation.  They would walk to Bruma to meet with the Countess, gather horses and carriages and then they would move on to Imperial City.  In keeping with tradition, Martin wished to have his claim to the throne endorsed by Chancellor Acato and the Elder Council before lighting the Dragonfires.

“Maeve Sigeweald!” Grandmaster Jauffre’s voice sounded loudly over the crowd as he caught up to her and pulled her away from Achille and Baurus.  “You will stand with the Emperor for the procession and then ride in together from Bruma.”  He was beaming and utterly oblivious to the amount of discomfort he was causing.  It was just as well,  she thought.  Perhaps someone should retain the illusion of love and devotion that had been destroyed for everyone else.

The rest of the Blades were not so ignorant and eyes shifted between Isobel and Martin and then back to Maeve as she took her place next to the Emperor.  She looked straight ahead, ignoring—though acutely aware of—the ways in which Martin and Isobel struggled to keep their respective feelings of regret and fury in check.

The procession exited Cloud Ruler Temple and ambled down toward Bruma.  As they approached the battlefield where they had allowed a Great Gate to open, Maeve suddenly stepped out of formation.  She had been by there once before, to honor her fallen comrades—her fellow Blades and city guards—and now it seemed inappropriate, on their way to light the Dragonfires, to simply march past without taking a moment to acknowledge the dead.

The group stopped and looked over and Martin, realizing what she was about to do, nodded to Jauffre who signaled for everyone to follow.  Martin joined Maeve, with Isobel close by his side, her lips pursed and twitching, struggling holding back a scowl.

Maeve continued to ignore her and when Martin nodded she spoke, slowly and deliberately.

_We remember them. At the rising of the sun and at its going down, we remember them._  
_At the blowing of the wind and the chill of winter, we remember them._  
_At the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring, we remember them._  
_At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer, we remember them._  
_At the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn, we remember them._  
_At the beginning of the year and when it ends, we remember them._  
_As long as we live, they too will live; for they are now a part of us, as we remember them._  
_When we are weary and in need of strength, we remember them._  
_When we are lost and sick at heart, we remember them._  
_When we have joy we crave to share, we remember them._  
_When we have decisions that are difficult to make, we remember them._  
_When we have achievements that are based on theirs, we remember them._  
_As long as we live, they too will live; for they are now a part of us, as we remember them.*_

By the end of the prayer, her voice was trembling.  She looked back at Martin, who was staring at her intently.  But just as their eyes met, Isobel stepped forward and pulled him close to her, breaking their gaze before it became uncomfortable for everyone.

When they finally arrived at Bruma’s stables, their horses and a carriage for the Countess and Isobel were waiting.  Baurus sidled up next to Maeve as she readied herself to mount her steed.   “The prayer was a nice touch,” he said, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.  “She’ll never be able to top that.  Not today anyway.”  He gestured to Isobel who was being helped into the carriage by Jauffre.

Maeve was furious.  “Do you really think I would exploit our fallen Blades in an attempt to show her up?”

Baurus looked sheepish, but only for a moment.  “My apologies Maeve,” he replied.  “But don’t tell me you don’t enjoy it.  Just a little bit.”

“I’m afraid my capacity for enjoyment was shattered some where in Oblivion,” she said scathingly.  “If you insist, however, I may admit to occasional bouts of smug satisfaction.” She gave him a frustrated smirk as she threw her leg over her horse.

The ride to Imperial City was long.  With Isobel being occupied by the countess and her steward, Martin approached Maeve, who had ridden just slightly ahead of the group.

“Maeve,” he said cautiously when they were out of earshot from the others.  “Maeve, I….” His voice lingered.  There was so much he wanted to say, but what could he possibly say now?  But if not now, then when?  His life was soon to cease being his own.  There wouldn’t be another chance for this.  Not unless he wanted to attempt closure with Blades and body servants everywhere.  Moreover, Isobel would certainly do everything in her soon-to-be-considerable power to prevent this conversation.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” she replied sharply.  “Do you require something?”  Her voice was steady, concealing all her anger and sadness, and the formality of her tone actually startled him.  She was just loud enough to alert Jauffre, who had fallen behind.  When he heard them, he rode up and flanked Martin on the right, nodding in apology for not keeping pace.

Martin pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at her, but she was done.  At this point, she could not feel any worse and was thus impervious to his anger.  Martin Septim, she decided, would never get under her skin again.

The rest of the ride was silent until they passed by Bleaker’s Way, where citizens scrambled to look upon the young Emperor, first in reverence and then in excitement as they followed behind the procession.  The same thing happened in Aleswell and Weye, and by the time they reached Chestnut Handy stables, their following had more than tripled.  Maeve scanned the crowed for Nerussa, but she was nowhere to be seen.

When they arrived at the Imperial Palace, Jauffre ordered the Blades to keep the now considerable crowd under control, while he escorted Martin, Isobel, Maeve, and the Countess into the Palace, where a delighted Chancellor Acato was waiting.

“I have been expecting you,” he said.  “The full Council has already considered the matter of Martin’s claim in detail.”  The Chancellor stepped forward and bent at knee in front of Martin.  “Martin Septim, on behalf of the Elder Council, I accept your claim to the throne.”  He stood and beamed.  “We should arrange the coronation ceremony as soon—”

“Jauffre! Maeve!” Blades Jena and Arturus rushed into the Palace hollering and interrupted the Chancellor.  “The city is under attack!  Oblivion gates have opened and Daedra are inside the city.  The Blades and the guard are overwhelmed.”

“Your Highness!” exclaimed Acato, “What are your orders?  Shall the guard fall back to the Palace?”

Martin took but a moment to consider their course of action.  “No!  If we let ourselves get besieged in the Palace, we’re doomed.  We must get to the Temple of the One immediately.”  Martin turned back and took Isobel by the arm.  “Jena! You and Arturus take Isobel back to Cloud Ruler Temple and do not return until someone comes for you.  Countess Narina, you best go with them. Take as many Blades as you need; we’ll utilize the guard.”

Maeve drew her sword as they exited the Palace.  Outside, the sky had turned a fiery red and the courtyard was swarming with Daedra.  It was a familiar site, but Maeve had never seen so many in one place.  She killed several clannafears and one particularly difficult Xivilai before looking back to find the guards and the Blades completely overwhelmed.  Martin was barely hidden in the throng of guards surrounding him.  She lunged forward and grabbed his arm.  “Run!” she shouted, pulling him out to her and the two of them rushed to the Temple district.

“We’re too late!” screamed Martin.  “Mehrunes Dagon is here!”

Maeve looked up and saw the biggest, most terrifying Daedra she had ever seen. The Daedric Prince of Destruction had come from his Deadlands to destroy the world.   He was twice as tall as the highest building in the district and he wielded a massive, monstrous axe.  His red, blistered skin betrayed the pain and suffering he was determined to inflict on all of Nirn.  Her entire body grew cold. They were too late.  Lighting the Dragonfires would do nothing now.  The barriers between Oblivion and Nirn were breeched.  It was the end.  Everything.  Over.

She stepped ahead of Martin with her sword raised.  If she was going out, she was going out fighting.  But Martin grabbed her shoulder.  “This way,” he said and practically shoved her into the temple.

“What are you doing?” exclaimed Maeve, as she recovered her breath.

“You can’t kill him, not with normal weapons” he said.  “But I have an idea.”  The calmness in his voice was almost more terrifying than the Daedric Prince wrecking havoc outside.   He raised his hand to touch the amulet that hung from his neck.  “The Amulet of Kings was given to mortals by Akatosh.  It contains his divine power.”

“I don’t understand,” she said as she looked around the empty temple.  The thick stone wall muffled the sounds of chaos but she could still hear everything and she was desperate to get back in the fight.

“I do,” he replied.  “I know now what I was born to do.  But I need to tell you something.”  He grasped her upper arm and pulled her close.

Her muscles tensed as tears welled up in her eyes.  “No…please don’t,” she whispered desperately, shaking her head.  Whatever he had to say, she couldn’t bear it.  Not now.

“I have to,” he said as he put his hand around her and pressed his face to hers.  “I love you Maeve.  I only wanted you.  I’m so sorry…for everything.”  He held her as she sank into his embrace.  “There is something else.”  He paused and he buried his face in her neck before bringing his lips back up to her ear.  “Isobel is pregnant.”

She yanked her head up and tried to pull away, but Martin gripped her tightly.  “I need you to protect them,” he pleaded.

“Gods…Martin…I can’t…fuck… _why_?” her voice cracked as she felt every last nerve in her body collapse.

“You’re the only one I trust,” he replied, his voice now tinged with desperation.

She shut her eyes and looked down, but within moments she was nodding.  He pulled her chin up and pressed his lips to hers.  “Thank you,” he whispered before pushing her gently away.  He turned around and hurried up to the alter.  Within moments the temple’s ceiling caved in as Mehrunes Dagon stomped his way inside.  He looked down at Martin and roared.  Maeve started shaking uncontrollably in terrified anticipation of what was going to happen.  Just as Dagon raised his axe, she saw the Amulet of Kings light up as Martin was lifted into the air.  Within moments his body disappeared into a flash of hot flame and was transformed into a bright fiery red dragon—the Avatar of Akatosh.

Mehrunes Dagon let out a Nirn-shattering screech so loud, it caused Maeve—who had otherwise hardened herself to the terrifying sounds of Oblivion—to cover her ears and duck.  Peering up, she saw Dagon swipe at Martin with his axe.  His reach was long and powerful, but he could not hit the swiftly moving dragon, who flew up and then down and in one fell swoop, he landed and sunk his jaws into the Daedric Prince’s neck—breaking it.  Dagon took another swing and Martin pulled back and spewed a breath of fire, killing the Dagon and sending his corpse into the air in a cloud of black smoke.  Maeve hurried to her feet and approached the dragon.  He was looking down at her and appeared almost out of breath.  But as she raised her hand to his wing, she heard another terrible crash that sent her stumbling back.  Within moments, the Avatar of Akatosh transformed, this time into a massive statue.  As the last of his fiery skin turned to stone, Maeve found herself bawling on her hands and knees.

“Good-bye Martin,” she whispered, stumbling forward.  She touched the statue and received its blessing.  Though still weary and sad, she stopped crying as she felt the warmth of the Akatosh’s magic infuse her soul.

After she picked up and sheathed her sword, she walked out and scanned the devastated district.  Dead bodies of Daedra, nameless guards, and Blades littered the street.  She could feel her chest sink again and more tears welling up as she found her friends among the dead.  Jauffre, Baurus, Roliand, Caroline.  She ignored the stares of the citizens who survived as she trudged along.  Just before she turned to leave the district, she noticed someone in Blades armor struggling to move.  She rushed over and pulled the corpse of a dead clannafear up and kicked it away.  Then she knelt by the Blade, his body so covered in soot and blood that she didn’t recognize him at first.

“Achille!” she exclaimed as she wiped his face clean.

“Maeve,” he groaned.  “Gods Maeve…it hurts.”  He was wounded and bleeding heavily.

She quickly found a healing potion in her satchel.  When he was stable she left briefly and found J’mhad, a healer who lived in the district.  He assured her that Achille would be fine, but it would take him a while to tend to each wound.  Maeve took her friend’s face in her hands and kissed his forehead.  “I have to go,” she whispered.  “Come find me when you are healed.”

With that she left the city; she had to return to Cloud Ruler Temple although the thought of confronting Isobel made her heart sink and her stomach wrench.  She rode along and in Weye she stopped at Wawnet Inn, where Nerussa greeted her with her usual affection and warmth.  In the privacy of Nerussa’s bedroom, where she had spent many nights on her treks between Oblivion gates, Maeve broke down completely and told her everything.

“I will accompany you to the temple,” said Nerussa and before Maeve could protest she explained that her father could take care of the inn.  She was insistent.  Nerussa had seen Maeve at her worst and yet she had never seen her friend quite as despondent as she was at that moment.

They set out first thing in the morning.  The journey back to Cloud Ruler Temple from Weye always felt longer to Maeve, but this time it was almost unbearable.  The towns they passed, the little villages that were earlier teeming with excitement and hope were now quiet, likely mourning not only the loss of the Emperor but also the citizens who had joined him in the city, in hopes of sharing in the celebration of the Dragonfires only to be slaughtered in Dagon’s devastation.

In Cloud Ruler Temple, the mood was beyond solemn.  The few remaining Blades wandered around the grounds.  They were pleased to see that Maeve was alive, but were otherwise distraught.  It would take them a long time to recover, but they would.  And then they would face a new challenge—the protection of a Septim with no amulet.  The notion filled her with dread, which she shook off as she entered Martin’s suite, where Isobel was sitting on the bed, clutching a leather bound journal.

“You’re alive,” she said flatly as she stood up slowly, offering a half-hearted greeting to Nerussa and glaring at Maeve.

“I am,” she replied.  She looked around awkwardly, not certain how to broach the subject of her pregnancy and Martin’s final request.  “He told me about your… _condition_ ,” she said finally.

“Of course he did.”  Isobel sucked in a deep breath.  “And I suppose he asked you to look after me.”

“He did,” said Maeve quietly.  They looked at each other intently, the discomfort between growing.

Isobel shook her head.  “That won’t be necessary,” she said.  “I intend to leave for Skyrim.  I was betrothed to Martin—that was common knowledge in Kvatch.  It won’t be safe for me and my baby in Cyrodiil.”  Maeve simply glowered.  It seemed that she was intent on making this as difficult as possible.  Before she could respond, however, Isobel continued.  She spoke slowly and deliberately.  “I would also like for my child to grow up amongst his kin.”

It was awkwardly quiet for a moment before Nerussa finally spoke up.  “Lady Isobel,” she said.  “Of course Skyrim was the home of Tiber Septim but I don’t think—”

She was interrupted by the silver wine goblet that flew past her shoulder and hit Isobel just under the eye.  “You fucking whore!” screamed Maeve.  Her face was red and the veins in her neck and forehead were throbbing.  Nerussa gasped and grabbed Maeve’s wrist as she readied to throw another dish—this time a pitcher—at Isobel.

“Okay,” yelled Nerussa, as she struggled to bring Maeve’s arm down.  “Let’s not throw all the silver at the pregnant lady.”  Maeve was so freaking strong and Nerussa was struggling.  “Maeve, please,” she pleaded.  Finally, Maeve released her grip and the pitcher crashed to the floor.  “What is going on here?”  Nerussa looked back at Isobel who was desperately trying to hold back tears.

“It’s not Martin’s baby,” Maeve explained, her voice was raw.  “It’s Roliand’s, right?”  Roliand was the only Nord in their contingent.  Maeve had observed that they were quite friendly, but thought nothing of it.  She assumed their friendship was platonic, similar to her friendship with Achille.  She was shocked although she shouldn’t have been.  If Martin was to believed, his relationship with Isobel was one that was fraught with conflict.  He said that he joined the temple to get away from Daedra worship, but she often wondered if he had hoped to get away from her as well.  Isobel nodded slowly, her lip quivering as she looked away from the other women.

“Are you certain?” Nerussa directed this question to Isobel carefully, not quite certain how she would receive such an inquiry.

“Yes,” she sobbed.  “I’ve not been with child for quite as long as Martin believed.”

“GAH—You fucking asshole!” Maeve was screaming again, but she managed to hold her fists at her side.

Isobel wiped her face, wincing as she caught her swollen eye on her wrist.  “How dare you judge me!” she bellowed back.  “You two were—” She paused, not able to get the words out without gagging.

“We stopped!” Maeve yelled.  “As soon as you arrived we were done!”

“So, you didn’t fuck him when he went chasing after you in Frostcrag Spire?”  She was furious now.  “Tell me, Maeve.  Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t fuck Martin then.”

Maeve looked sheepish.  “It wasn’t supposed to happen.”  She shuddered at the memory of the last night she spent in Martin’s arms—she couldn’t even recall how they went from screaming and fighting to thrusting and gasping though she suppose it had something to do with all wine and brandy they drank.

They stood around and stared at each other a bit longer, both full of rage and sorrow.  Finally, Isobel shook her head and held her book out.  “You should take this,” she said.  “It’s Martin’s journal.  There is barely a mention of me, but you….” Her voice faded as Maeve looked at her sternly, ignoring the book.

When it became clear that Maeve wasn’t going to move, Nerussa stepped forward and took the journal from Isobel.  “Will someone be accompanying you to Skyrim?  Do you have somewhere to go?” she asked, desperately trying to ease at least some of the tension in the room.

“Yes,” she replied.  “Several of the Blades have offered.   And I’ve got some of my family’s money stashed.  Thank you for your concern.”

Nerussa packed Martin’s journal into her satchel and dragged Maeve out of the suite.  After gathering her belongings and changing armor, they left, this time for Chorrol, where Nerussa planned to tuck her despondent friend into bed and stay with her as long as she needed.

The ride was long and tedious with little more than a couple of imps and some wolves to distract them.  When they arrived at home, Maeve stumbled into the door of Arborwatch and dropped everything before collapsing on the floor.  Nerussa expected her to break down but she didn’t.  She simply rolled on to her back and stared at the ceiling.

“What are you thinking about?” Nerussa asked as she took a seat beside her on the floor.

“That I am very glad that I do not have to spend the rest of my life looking after another bastard Septim.”  She attempted a weak grin and took a deep breath.  “I’m going to miss him.”

“I know,” Nerussa replied.  “Come on love, let me put you to bed.”

“I’m going to sleep for a month.”

“Good.  I’ll be back after I let my father know I’m going to stay with you.”

Normally Maeve would have protested, but she couldn’t.  She desperately needed her and she wouldn’t deny it this time.

*****

Maeve was nothing if not true to her word and she did, in fact, spend a month in bed—leaving for the occasional light meal or bath.  Nerussa was pleased to be back in Chorrol and happily doted on her friend while she recovered.  On Tirdas of the fifth week, there was a knock at the door.

“Achille!” Nerussa embraced him warmly and brought him into the house.  “You look good.  Are you all healed?”

“Yes,” he said.  “I’ve been to Cloud Ruler Temple and they said that Maeve came home.  Is she here?”

“She’s been indisposed for many weeks now, but I think she will get out of bed for you.”  Nerussa was certain that Maeve would make the effort for Achille.  Apart from Martin and herself, there was no one that she loved more.  “She’s been eating better so I made a large breakfast.  Help yourself to food and I’ll get her.”

Achille happily served himself some cured meat and porridge and poured himself a cup of tea from the kettle.  He smiled when he heard Maeve and Nerussa coming downstairs.  Maeve looked weary and thin, but he was so happy to see her that he leaped up from the table and threw his arms around her.  She hugged him tightly and hobbled over to the table, where Nerussa had made up a plate for her.  When they sat down, however, Maeve took one look at the food and pushed it away.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I can’t eat this.”

“That’s okay,” replied Nerussa.  “I’ll make you something else.  Do you want eggs or maybe something simple, like toast?”  She hurried around the kitchen looking to see what she could cook.

Maeve shook her head and closed her eyes as waves of nausea overtook her.  Achille touched her arm.  “Are you okay?”

She opened her eyes and looked at him strangely before she rolled off the bench and crawled over to the corner, where she found a bucket and vomited.  “Oh gods,” she cried.  And then she threw up again.

“Oh no!” exclaimed Nerussa.

Achille got up from the table and stood alongside Nerussa.  “What is it?  What’s wrong with her.”

“Oh dear gods…mother Mara in Atherius,” Maeve groaned, “why does  _everything_  have to have a smell?”  Then she threw her face into the bucket and vomited again.

Nerussa’s face went pale as she looked at Achille.  “She’s…pregnant.”

~~~~~~

  **Author note: This chapter was originally penned in 2007.**

*Remembrance Day prayer/poem. Obviously, I did not write this. It just seemed to suit the scene fairly well.


	7. The Time to Rise

“So, Maeve Sigeweald was schtupping Martin Septim,” said Xeri, grinning mischievously and breaking the somewhat awkward silence that had settled in as everyone reflected on Nerussa’s story.  “Good for her.”

“It’s not true,” said Evangeline as she shook her head.  She got up and strode briskly over to a shelf from which she pulled a tattered, loosely bound book.

“Oh Evangeline, you know better than anyone what cold, lonely nights in Cloud Ruler Temple can lead to,” teased Xeri.

“That’s different,” she replied.  “I wasn’t screwing the Emperor.”

“No!” exclaimed Xeri, “But you could have been.”

“It’s true.  Although my intentions were never motivated by power,” said Nerussa.  “I think—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Evangeline interrupted them.  “Bedyn is descended from Minas, Maeve and Achille’s second born.  I’m sure of it.”  She brought the book over and paged through it as Xeri and Nerussa looked at her uneasily.

“Nerussa was there; I think she would remember,” said Xeri, becoming increasingly annoyed.

Evangeline ignored her and when she found the page on which it was confirmed that Bedyn descended from Vivienne, Maeve’s first-born daughter, she frowned and slammed the book shut.  “I don’t care.  It’s not true.”  She was insistent.

Nerussa had anticipated that Evangeline would not accept the news easily, but she was not expecting such outright denial.  Xeri and Nerussa exchanged knowing looks.  If Evangeline intended to be stubborn, they were in for a very long night.

“Evie…” said Quaranir calmly as he stood to approach her.  Xeri and Nerussa looked at each other again, both trying to conceal their astonishment.  Only one other person had ever called the former Arch-mage Evie.  It was not a nickname for just anyone to use.

Evangeline shot Quaranir a hard look, causing him to withdraw and sit back down.  She paced the room and rubbed her hands together before stopping suddenly.  “Why did you believe her?  Maeve could have been with anyone of those Blades.  For all we know she might have fucked a Dremora Valkynaz on one of her trips to Oblivion.”  Evangeline grimaced and shuddered at what  _that_  would mean for Elspeth’s ancestry.

“Excuse me, what?” asked Nerussa.  “Why would she lie about a relationship with Martin?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” retorted Evangeline.  “You told us stories for years about the madness of Maeve Sigeweald.  We’re talking about a woman who abandoned her family and was last seen heading into a strange door in Nibenay Bay.  And I’ve got at least three Daedra scholars downstairs who will swear by Sheogorath’s beard that the last Champion of Cyrodiil defeated the Jyggalag and took throne of the Madgod for herself.”

“Evangeline,” Nerussa said slowly.  “I know this is difficult to accept but—”

“No!” she shouted, interrupting her.  “What I find difficult to accept is your uncritical faith in the words of an insane person!”

Evangeline was unwavering and the elves simply shifted in their seats uncomfortably.   All of the points she raised were valid ones, but Nerussa knew, deep in her heart, that Maeve’s downward spiral into insanity was not characterized by delusions.  She looked around.  Xeri was starting to look doubtful and Quaranir’s face was impossible to read.

“What did Martin’s journal say?” asked Xeri suddenly.  Evangeline jerked her head up and Nerussa shrugged her shoulders in confusion.  “His journal would have confirmed their relationship, right?” Xeri continued.  “Did he write of an intimate relationship with Maeve?”

Nerussa cleared her throat and spoke quietly.   “I never read Martin’s journal,” she said

Xeri’s eyes grew wide in disbelief.  “You had Martin Septim’s journal in your possession for two centuries and you never once read it?”  She was incredulous.  “I will never understand the strength of will possessed by you Altmer.  Never.”

“It never occurred to me that I needed to,” she explained.  “And then Thalmor stole the journal before they destroyed the rest of my papers….”  Her voice trailed off and it was once again uncomfortably quiet.

“Excuse me,” said Quaranir as he stood up and walked out of the room.  He returned shortly with his satchel.  The women looked at him curiously as he rifled through its contents and after several moments produced an old, leather-bound book.  “I think this might settle our disagreement.”  He pushed it across the table toward Nerussa who let out an audible gasp as she clapped her hands over her mouth.

“Martin’s journal!” she exclaimed.  She reached out and touched it gingerly, almost as if she couldn’t believe it was real.  Before she opened it, she looked up at the monk.  “I don’t understand.  Did the Psijic Order steal this from me?”

“Oh no,” he said.  “The Order recovered it when one of Nerien’s men infiltrated the Dominion palace in Summerset Isle some time back.  He gave it to me when we began to collaborate with Evangeline and the dissident elves.”  He looked around guiltily.  Quaranir had every intention of returning the journal to Evangeline.  With Bedyn dead, the information in the journal mattered little.  But when he learned that Evangeline had a daughter by Bedyn and that Elspeth was very likely the mage the Order had been seeking and quite possibly the reason the Thalmor purged the University, he held on to it.  He told himself that it would be best to present it with some sort of strategy or promise that the Order would support Elspeth and offer their protection.  But in truth, he simply did not want to confront Evangeline alone with it.

“You bastard!” Evangeline bellowed as she stomped back over to the table.  When she stopped, her whole body was shaking.  “You brought that into my home…this whole time…and we….”  Her voice had lowered considerably, but the sheer fury in her tone was clear and the tension between them was palpable.  Suddenly, she turned to Xeri and Nerussa, clasped her hands together and smiled.  “Would you two excuse us please?”  The calmness in her voice was unsettling but they nodded and made a swift exit.

In the hallway, Xeri immediately pressed her ear up to the closed door.  Nerussa glowered at her and yanked her away.  “You know,” said Xeri, “I do not believe they’re quarrelling over matters of strategy.”

Nerussa continued to glare at Xeri as she rubbed her furrowed brow with her fingers.  “Well…Evangeline and Quaranir,” she mused after a few moments.

“I don’t know why you are surprised,” Xeri replied.  “It’s been over ten years since Bedyn died and before that….”  Xeri stopped.  As meddlesome as she could be at times, she knew that some stories were not hers to tell.

“But the Psijic Order?”  Nerussa was perplexed.

“They aren’t an ascetic order, are they?” Xeri asked.

“Well no,” she explained.  “But the commitment it takes just to be accepted into the order doesn’t leave a lot of time for romantic relationships.”

“Maybe they’re just fucking,” suggested Xeri.  “That doesn’t take much time.  Especially if you’re an Altmer.”

Nerussa responded with a look of disgust.  She had forgotten just how utterly impertinent Xeri could be.  They waited close to an hour before Quaranir opened the door to invite them back insider where they found a weary Evangeline paging through Martin Septim’s journal, her eyes red and puffy.

She didn’t look up with they entered, but she shook her head again.  “I still can’t believe it.  I don’t want to believe it.”  She turned two more pages before she closed the journal and pushed it away.  “He loved her very much,” she said before she put her head down in her arms.  Nerussa slid into the chair next to her and squeezed her shoulder gently.

The group was silent for several moments before Quaranir spoke.  “Are we…” he paused and considered his question very carefully.  “Are we absolutely certain that Elspeth is Bedyn’s child?”

Nerussa’s eyes widened and she glowered at the monk.  “Why you—”

“No,” Evangeline interrupted as she raised her head back up.  “It’s a fair question.  Things were, well they were really difficult for a while…but no, Elspeth is most definitely Bedyn’s daughter.”  She looked toward Xeri who was nodding enthusiastically.  “So this, this is why Bedyn was killed.  It wasn’t because of me or because of the Blades.”  She leaned back and pressed her palms against her forehead.  There was a long pause before she brought her hands back down suddenly and looked over at Xeri again.  “ _Oio Naga, Mallari Arana_.”

“That message!” exclaimed Xeri.  She had ruminated on those words for years.  “Eternal Death, Gold Kings.  Eternal death of gold kings?  No more gold kings?”  And she was perplexed as she ever was.

“No more Septims,” said Quaranir.

Evangeline’s face contorted.  “The Thalmor murdered my husband and left behind a pun!  Somehow I find that more offensive than anything else they have ever done to us.”  She pushed her hand through her hair and looked at Nerussa again.  “So now that you’ve dropped this on us, what does it mean?  What is to be done with this knowledge?”

“And what have you been doing with this information for the past two hundred years?” asked Quaranir as he took his seat across from her again.

Nerussa sighed and leaned back.  “Mostly nothing,” she admitted.  “After Martin died, there was no Amulet of Kings, no Dragonfires, nothing that would confirm that Vivienne was heir to the throne.  Maeve was paranoid and after Minas was born, she made me promise never to show Martin’s journal to anyone and then she refused to speak of it again.   I did some research when we were at Arcane University.  Then after she went missing, Achille moved us back to Wayrest and we stayed there because the Empire was falling apart and it was safer in High Rock than Cyrodiil.  Achille was from a noble family and Vivienne married well.  And they continued to _marry well_.”

Nerussa’s voice betrayed some derision at this, but she continued.  “They got rich and lazy and believe me when I say that not a single one was fit to rule much apart from their bankrolls.  I maintained some research when I had time, but it wasn’t until Anya decided that she had enough of her family and moved Bedyn to Chorrol that I began studying the matter with any seriousness.  During the war, the Thalmor destroyed all my papers and then came after me.  I spent the last twenty-five years in Skyrim completing my research—trying to figure out how we might make it known that the Septim line continues, that is, beyond rumors of bastard spawn strewn across Tamriel.”

“Did you mean for Bedyn to take the Ruby Throne?” asked Xeri.

“Perhaps,” she replied, looking around cautiously.  “After the war I wasn’t particularly concerned about his rise to power.  I was more interested in what the continuation of the Septim line would mean for the White-Gold Concordat.”

“Probably very little,” said Evangeline.  “One could argue that Septim blood isn’t inherently divine.  Although I understand why you left Elspeth in Skyrim.  If word of this got out, there is no population more devoted to Tiber Septim than the Nords and she could find protection there.”  The tension in her face had lessened considerably, although her expression still betrayed much anxiety.

“Yes of course,” said Xeri facetiously.  “Perhaps Jarl Ulfric could take her on as a ward, a covenant between the houses Stormcloak and Sigeweald.  In exchange for her protection, Evangeline and her dissident elves won’t annex Eastmarch hold.”  Xeri had hoped this would diffuse some of the tension in the room but Evangeline appeared not to be paying attention to anyone other than Nerussa.

“Why would we do that?” asked Quaranir who was baffled by this suggestion.

“It was a—never mind,” said Xeri as she rolled her eyes at the humorless monk.  “So what have you uncovered, Nerussa?  If this is true—how could we possibly authenticate this?  Surely, Martin’s journal and genealogical records, however carefully maintained, are not enough to substantiate such a claim?”  It was taking every ounce of self-restraint Xeri had not to shriek in sheer delight that her vision was confirmed, that Elspeth would heal the wounded Empire by ushering in a new Septim dynasty.

Evangeline narrowed her eyes at Xeri’s query and looked back to Nerussa.  She was dreading the answer to this.  When she said good-bye to Elspeth over ten years ago, she knew her daughter would be trained as a battlemage and she always imagined that Xeri’s visions would bring her back home or to one of the revolutionary militias where she would rise to a more moderate level of leadership—relatively speaking.

Nerussa took a deep breath before opening her satchel and removing several texts and journals, which she carefully placed in a pile.  When she spoke, she did so very deliberately, paying close attention to the way her words were received.  “I believe I have uncovered a way to authenticate Elspeth’s ancestry.  It may take us a little time, however.”

“Us?” Xeri was intrigued but also concerned for Evangeline.  The combination of dread, anxiety, and sadness she felt from the Breton was beyond emotion and bordered on sickness.  She looked back at Evangeline who was pouring herself another goblet of wine in an attempt to maintain her composure.  “What would you have  _us_  do?”

“We’re going to reforge the Amulet of Kings,” she replied.  “I found—”

She was interrupted by a spray of red wine, spewed across the table as Evangeline choked on her drink.  The elves looked at her as she sputtered and coughed and tried to talk.  When she calmed down somewhat, she shook her head and sighed.  “Oh my dear, dear Nerussa,” she said.  “I know better than anyone the effects that being in exile can have on one’s mind.  Delusions of grandeur abound in those of us forced to live away from civilized society—”

“Evie, why not let Nerussa show us her research?” Quaranir was practically pleading with her as he procured a rag to clean up the mess she’d made.

“The Amulet of Kings cannot be reforged!” she exclaimed.  “It was imbued with the soul of St. Alessia and when it was destroyed, her soul was destroyed as well.”  Evangeline looked around at everyone, astonished that she had to explain any of this.  “Even if it was possible, do you have any idea of the sheer amount of power it would take to conjure the destroyed soul of a deity?”

“True,” agreed Nerussa.  “Perhaps, it is not  _the_  Amulet of Kings we will be forging, but we can forge a cnosle, which is the ancient type of blood-line talisman on which the Amulet of Kings was based.  Once we have that, all we have to do is complete the trials of St. Alessia.  The amulet will be blessed by the Divines and then only Elspeth will be able to wear it.”

“The Trials of St. Alessia?”  Evangeline threw her arms up in disbelief.  “Am I the only sane person in this room?”

Who is  _we_?” asked Xeri, ignoring Evangeline.  “Us?” she gestured between herself and Nerussa.  “Why wouldn’t Elspeth perform the trials?”

“It’s dangerous,” said Nerussa.  “But more important, failure to complete the trials leaves one in debt to the Divines for the rest of his or her life.  If we fail, it’s our debt—and she’s free to pursue the matter of her Septim ancestry on her own.  Or not.”

Quaranir nodded but his face betrayed concern.  “You can’t create a cnosle on just any forge,” he said.  “Perhaps an atherium forge, in which case then you’ll need atherium….”

Nerussa grinned and started to pull some more things out of her satchel.  “I’ve located just such an ancient forge in some ruins in the Rift,” she said as she carefully laid a velvet bag down on the table.  From this bag, she produced three blue luminescent crystals.

“Atherium,” gasped Xeri.  “But where…”

“That’s a story for later,” she said.  “I still need one more piece, but I know where we can find it.  The only other thing we need is an Ayleid soul gem, like the one adorning the Staff of Worms, which Maeve recovered from Mannimarco and left here.”  She glanced knowingly at Evangeline who simply scowled but after several moments her face softened somewhat and she nodded.

“So,” said Quaranir.  “I understand that you can act as a proxy for the trials, like an acolyte performs rituals for another, but how can you forge the amulet without Elspeth?  Such a talismen requires the individual who is to wear it, correct?

Evangeline’s face brightened somewhat at this.  Perhaps, Nerussa’s preposterous idea meant that she would soon be reunited with her daughter.  But the Altmer simply shook her head. “We don’t need Elspeth,” she explained as she unwrapped and revealed Trygve’s arrow and some soiled bandages.  “We just need her blood.”

Xeri and Quaranir gasped while Evangeline stretched her fingers forward before bringing her hands back to her chest, clutched together in two tight fists.  “Why,” she began, struggling to keep her voice steady, “do you have an arrow and several bandages covered with my daughter’s blood?”

“I promise it wasn’t intentional,” she explained.  “It was simply a coincidence.”

“I’m starting to think that there are no coincidences,” said Xeri firmly.

“The timing of everything is astonishing,” agreed Quaranir.  “A dragon in Skyrim, the revelation of a living Septim….” His voice trailed off as he rested his chin in his hand and started looking through Nerussa’s notes again.

“Indeed!” said Nerussa.  “And Elspeth was in Helgen when the dragon attacked.”  She was suddenly giddy at the prospect that the Divines were uniting and intervening on their behalf and without thinking added, “to hear her tell it, the dragon basically interrupted her execution.” A soon as the words left her mouth, however, she regretted them and she braced herself for another outburst from Evangeline.

But Evangeline simply stared at her.  All the color had drained from her face and she looked like she was going to collapse.  She opened her mouth to say something and then thought better of it.  After pushing herself violently away from the table, she stormed across the room and exited to the balcony.

Xeri opened her mouth to reprimand Nerussa but stopped herself—there was no reason to believe she wouldn’t make the next gaffe.  The elves looked at each other uncomfortably, none of them certain who should follow her.  Finally, Xeri stepped up and found Evangeline outside sitting cross-legged on one of the old guild portals, staring out over the mountains.

She didn’t look over when Xeri sat down; she just wiped her eyes on her robe.  “You know,” she said after some time, “I didn’t think Elspeth would have much more than the Spire to inherit and now….”  She chewed on her lip for a moment before reaching into her robe and removing her amulet from her neck.  It was the Sigeweald family amulet, a stunning piece that had been in the family for generations.  “This was the amulet I wanted to give her when we were reunited.”  She ran her thumb around the inlaid star pattern and the emeralds that flanked the star’s smaller points.  “It’s got a rare enchantment that’s supposed to bring guidance.”

“Bedyn gave that to you when you were betrothed.”

“Against your advice,” she said, smirking a little.  Xeri had done everything she could to discourage Bedyn from pursuing Evangeline, to no avail.

Xeri smiled.  “I may have been mistaken about that.  You were good together.  And you brought Elspeth into the world.”

Evangeline swallowed against the lump growing in her throat before asking, “What is she like?”  She looked over at Xeri with a weak grin that betrayed both eagerness and anxiety.

“Powerful, but you knew that,” Xeri replied.  “A bit zealous at times but she’s good with a blade and quick on her feet.  She’s a bit more sensitive than I’d like but it’s served her well; Runa saw to that.”  Xeri frowned, unsure if she should relay only Elspeth’s strengths.  But Evangeline was her mother, and would want to know everything.   “She’s stubborn, like you.  She has no regard for social convention.  It’s not that she’s rude; it’s simply that etiquette rituals don’t make any sense to her.  And she’s a bit self-absorbed.”

“I can’t imagine why.” Evangeline responded sardonically.  There was a brief pause as Evangeline worked up the nerve to reveal her next concern.  Finally, she looked intently at Xeri and said, “Let’s say Nerussa forges this amulet.  Even if Elspeth doesn’t take the throne—surely something will be expected of her.  Can she lead?”

Xeri let out a long breath and thought about this for a moment.  “Perhaps with good counsel,” she said finally. “Runa was in charge of teaching civics and history and politics and all that.  But I can say that she has no tolerance for tyrants.  She’s smart—she’s got an expansive set of facts in her head, thanks to Runa.  But she’s not always thoughtful.  Of course, she’s never really had to be.”

Evangeline nodded sadly and let her gaze wander downward in the direction of the village.  “You know, I’ve been so consumed with what this means for Elspeth that I haven’t even considered what it could mean for my mages.  This could be what we’ve been preparing for.  Although, I can’t….”  Her voice trailed off again.  For all her leadership and strategic prowess, Evangeline could not yet comprehend what this would mean for the dissidents and their allies.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Xeri.  “We should probably go back inside and listen to Nerussa’s insane plan.”

Evangeline stood up and stretched.  “And to think,” she said as she opened the door to her suite, “all those years I thought you were the crazy Mer.”

At the table, Quaranir was reviewing Nerussa’s research notes.  Nerussa had laid out the supplies, flawless gems, precious metals—all the things she had gathered in order to forge the Amulet.  Evangeline approached and ran her fingers along the gold ingot.  Then she picked up a flawless diamond and inspected it before she looked at Nerussa intently.  “So, you and Xeri really mean to do this.”

“Yes,” she replied.  “And I hoped you would come as well.”

Evangeline’s eyes widened and she shook her head ardently.  “I can’t leave here,” she said.

“Why not?” asked Nerussa.

“Well, for one thing it’s against the terms of my exile,” she explained.  “Not to mention that I’m needed here.”

“Quaranir tells me that you have commanders now.  Captains and the like.”  She looked back at him and he nodded in confirmation.  “Surely they can manage without you.”

Quaranir smiled warmly toward Evangeline.  “Evangeline still provides inspiration and leadership.  It is, of course, her words that continue to bring dissidents from all over Tamriel,” he explained.  “And she is still their best conjuration and alteration instructor.  However, I’m sure there is business that might take you from the Village.  And if you were to find yourself in Hammerfell, for example, there is nothing Mede can do.”

“Tell me Evangeline,” said Xeri.  “Will you be able to focus on leading and inspiring and teaching knowing the journey on which Nerussa and I have embarked?”

Evangeline looked around the room before she lowered and shook her head.  “No,” she whispered.

“Three is better anyway,” said Xeri.

“There is one other thing,” said Quaranir.  “What will you tell Elspeth?”

It was uncomfortably quiet for several moments as the women looked at each other.  Finally, Nerussa and Evangeline’s gazes settled on Xeri.  As loath as they were to admit it, she was the only one who could answer this question.  She knew her best.

“I don’t think we should tell her anything just yet,” Xeri said after thinking it over.  “If she’s not to accompany us, then she would simply ruminate on the matter.  Then she’ll get restless and zealous and wind up doing something incredibly stupid that will get a Jarl killed or something.”  Xeri was clearly exaggerating, but her point stood.  “Of course, she’s going to get restless regardless.  We can’t leave her to do nothing—she’ll join Ulfric Stormcloak’s rebellion out of boredom.”

“The Order will call on her soon to settle the matter of the orb,” said Quaranir.  “After that however….”  He paused and thought about his next statement carefully.  “On this matter, however, I’m not sure we should have the Order involved—not without proof.”  Even with proof, Quaranir knew that they would be divided on the matter of supporting the revival of a long-thought-dead dynasty.  He was going to have to think long and hard on how he would approach the Order with this.  The apotheosis of Talos was one thing.  His line of succession was another matter entirely.

“Won’t she be expecting the Order to follow up on the matter of the purge and the Thalmor?” asked Nerussa.

“We could ask her to represent the dissidents in the North,” suggested Quaranir.

“If she knows you’re associated with the dissidents, she’ll want to see Evangeline,” said Xeri.  She paused for a moment and looked thoughtfully back at the group.  “Nords don’t particularly care for mages and elves, dissidents or not.  Let’s say she were to represent either the Order or the dissidents in the North, she would have to curry favor with the citizens.  Nerussa says that she and Lydia have done work for several of the Jarls.  She could keep doing that.  It’s not particularly heroic at this point, but it will keep her busy.”

“Very well,” said Quaranir.  “I’ll have Nerein relay that to her.”

“No!” said Evangeline.  She turned to face Quaranir and took his hands in hers.  “I want you to talk to her from now on.  No one else.  Please.”  Quaranir opened his mouth to protest.  Nerein believed Elspeth and the college to be his responsibility and would be displeased at Quaranir’s interference.  But when he saw how desperate she looked and heard the pleading in her voice, he agreed.

“Very well,” said Evangeline, gesturing to the other women.  “We have an armory and an apothecary here.  We’ll ready our supplies this evening and ride out tomorrow before dawn.  Let’s do this.  Let’s bring Elspeth to her destiny.”


	8. For you alone

_Funny thing about destiny.  Sometimes fate has other plans._  
– Philip J. Fry, “Law and Oracle” (2011)

 

Elspeth could see High Hrothgar rising above them as they rounded the end of mountain path—the culmination of the 7000 steps.  To her right, she could hear Trygve nattering on about Kyne and creation.  Although his voice broke up the uncomfortable silence that had plagued their journey from Whiterun, she paid him little attention, certain that he wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t already learned from Runa.   _Kyne created the Nords, the children of the sky, when she breathed life onto the land._  

The etched tablets along the path were more a little more interesting, offering a chronology of the Dragon War and the events leading to the founding of the first empire.  Trygve had them read every single one and from these she learned the names of the dragons, Alduin and Parthunaax, and of Jurgen Windcaller who built High Hrothgar after his seven-year meditation.

IX  
For years all silent, the Greybeards spoke one name  
Tiber Septim, stripling then, was summoned to Hrothgar  
They blessed and named him Dovahkiin

“Dovahkiin,” whispered Trygve at the ninth tablet.  “They may bless you as such.”

Dovahkiin.  Like Tiber Septim.  The thought filled her with dread.  All her life, she assumed that the revelation of Xeri’s vision would bring clarity and relief, a sense of purpose and certainty.  But it didn’t.  She could barely conceive of herself as Dragonborn and if her destiny was to be tied to the likes of Talos, she was terrified.  She looked back at Lydia who had, once again, fallen behind.  Her heartbroken friend had barely spoken since the morning after the Western Watchtower and her silence made Elspeth uncomfortable.  On the ride to Ivarstead, she attempted to distract her by discussing her concerns and fears over being Dragonborn, but Lydia just looked at her blankly.

“I can’t,” she’d said weakly.  “Elspeth I’m sorry, but I can’t deal with you right now.”

It hurt, but what hurt more was not being able to help.  At the Vilemyr Inn, where they spent the night before starting the 7000-step trek, she encouraged Lydia to confide her feelings over warm mead and sweet rolls, but all she got for her effort was another vacant stare and a slow headshake.  In their rented room they shared a bed and as they laythere Lydia held on to her like a scared child holds a rag doll and cried into the back of her neck.  The best Elspeth could do was offer a silent prayer to Mara.  The next morning, Lydia was silent again and remained aloof as they made their way up the mountain.

Trygve walked ahead of them and Elspeth waited, but Lydia barely acknowledged her when she caught up.  She had never seen her so despondent and she was worried, but she didn’t know what to do.  She tried to keep pace with her, in the hopes that being physically close to might help, but Lydia didn’t even seem to notice.

From a slight elevation to the right, Trygve called out and beckoned them to the final tablet, which caused Lydia’s face to brighten a tiny bit.  He told them that reading all the tablets would yield a powerful blessing and magic was a distraction that she desperately needed.

X  
The Voice is worship  
Follow the Inner path  
Speak only in True Need

Elspeth was ruminating on this last line while Trygve explained the blessing to Lydia.  “It’s called Voice of the Sky,” he said.  “For a full day, animals won’t attack or flee.”  Trygve mused on this for several moments.   He had the utmost respect for nature.  And as a Nord hunter and healer, he believed that he had a unique perspective on the cycle of life and death.  The ability to walk in the wild, as neither prey nor predator, astonished him.  “Imagine the potential of this power,” he said.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” asked Lydia angrily.  “That might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Lydia!”  Trygve was horrified and even Elspeth was shocked.  Lydia was not particularly religious and she had confided her past disillusionment with the likes of Mara and Dibella after the incident with Vipir, but she had never heard her complain so brazenly following a blessing from one of the Divines.

But Lydia rolled her eyes and kept going.  “We’re going to be spending more than a day in High Hrothgar.  What animals aren’t going to flee in there?”

“Fine.  If Kyne’s divine grace is so offensive to you, I think it might be best if you remained outside.”  Elspeth thought Trygve was being sarcastic, but when she looked at him, he was seething.   Lydia simply stared, her lip quivering angrily.  Elspeth expected that she would tell him to shut the fuck up and they could move along, but she didn’t.  Instead she grunted and stomped across the steps to the edge of the mountain.

Elspeth glowered at him as she walked past and sat with Lydia.  From there they could see Whiterun, Bleak Falls Barrow, and the mountains far past the tundra.  The world below them was vast and yet, everything looked so small.

“This is the first time I’ve made this pilgrimage,” Lydia said sadly as she wiped her face and inhaled deeply.  “I’ve always wanted to see Whiterun from here.  It’s supposed to be a huge spiritual experience for a Nord.  And as I look at Jorrvaskr and Dragonsreach, all I can think about is whether or not Hrongar is fucking Njada out of spite.” She gripped her head between her bent arms and squeezed her eyes shut, as if restraining an onslaught of anguish.   “Trygve is right.  I can’t go in there.  Not like this.”

Elspeth had no idea how to respond.  Her heart ached for Lydia and the thought of walking into High Hrothgar without her made her stomach wrench.  “Maybe it will help,” she suggested.  “Balgruuf says it’s peaceful.”

“I can’t even imagine where my thoughts would go without something to distract me,” she said.  “I want to kill another frost troll.”

“Please come,” she said quietly.  “I really want you with me.”  Elspeth was trying not to sound desperate but she wanted her to know that it was important.

“Gods Elspeth,” Lydia was pleading.  “Don’t do this to me….” Her voice trailed off.  Then after a few moments she took a deep breath.  “If you command it, I will do it.”

Elspeth’s eyes widened at this suggestion.  At no point did she ever consider asserting authority over Lydia.  She put her hand on Lydia’s arm and squeezed it cautiously.  “I don’t want you to come out of duty,” she said, hoping that Lydia wouldn’t sense her disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” said Lydia.  “I’ve just never felt like this before.  With Vipir I knew where to put all the anger and grief but with this I…I just can’t.  I feel like part of me is missing.”

“You were together for a long time,” said Elspeth.  “Not only that, but you had this huge secret and now you don’t.”  She took Lydia’s hand.  “I understand if you can’t do this.”

Lydia nodded.   “I suppose I could go back Ivarstead and find some work.  At least them I could stay busy…make some coin.”  She stood and stretched her arms behind her.  Would she really be distracted back in town or would she be consumed with guilt once she arrived?  She was pondering this when she turned around and looked back toward High Hrothgar.  Trygve was standing on the steps by the entrance with his arms folded across his chest and one leg up on the stone rail as he breathed in deeply and scanned the sky.  His posture was valiant to the point of absurdity.

“Look how noble he looks,” whispered Elspeth.   “Do you suppose he’s doing that on purpose?”

Lydia let out an uncomfortable chuckle as she considered the contrast between his dignified stature and her wretched behavior.  When she looked back at Elspeth, she realized that she couldn’t let either heartbreak or the criticism of a pretentious Nord get in the way of her duty— and not her duty as housecarl to Thane, or of a Nord on a spiritual journey.  It was simply her obligation as a friend and for that she did not require the purity of spirit that Trygve seemed to think she lacked.  She just needed to push her sorrow aside for a bit.

“I can’t leave you alone with him,” she said suddenly.  “Let’s go.”  And before Elspeth could ask if she was certain, Lydia was pulling her toward the steps.

Trygve furrowed his brow as they approached but didn’t say anything.  He stepped away to allow Elspeth to enter the building first.  She held her breath as she opened the doors and stepped quietly along the narrow alcovethat led to a large open room, where four elderly men in grey robes stood silently.  Her heart started racing as one of them came toward her.  She wondered if he knew, instinctively, that she was the one who absorbed the dragon’s soul.  His gaze first met Trygve, who nodded and gestured toward Elspeth.  The old man’s eyes widened a bit as if, perhaps, he was not expecting a Breton.  But his quietly imposing demeanor soon returned.

“Dragonborn,” he said and she couldn’t quite believe he was addressing her.  “We’ve been waiting for you.”

The way he regarded her was so unlike the reverence and awe that had been demonstrated toward her in Whiterun.  His tone, though gentle, was somber and it tugged at her already heavy heart.  High Hrothgar, with its quiet stillness so high above the world, was indeed tranquil but Elspeth was beginning to think that she would not find peace here.

“Yes,” said Elspeth softly, her voice trembling.  “People have been calling me that.”  It still didn’t feel right, to think of herself as  _that_.

“Have they now?  And what would you call yourself?”

“Elspeth,” she replied and paused, wondering if she should reveal her real name.  Nerussa had warned her not to tell anyone—not even the Psijic Order.  She had to assume that the Greybeards would have been included in her instruction.  “Elspeth Aurilie,” she said.  “And these are my companions, Lydia of Whiterun and Trygve Wartooth of Riften.”

The old man’s lips twitched into a very slight smile.  She seemed terribly anxious, but her apparent modesty pleased him.  Without the years of meditation that it took a typical person to learn the Voice, he was concerned that the Dragonborn would be impatient, all too eager to use the power without giving it due respect.  Still, he was wary of her.  In her armor, she looked more like a warrior than pilgrim.  She carried several weapons and he would be most displeased if she came seeking another one.

“Very well,” he said.  “I am Master Arngeir.  I speak for the Greybeards.  We will see if you truly have the gift.”  He led her toward the center of the room and stood in front of her.  “Show us Elspeth, let us taste of your voice.”

She looked up at Master Arngeir who gestured for her to speak at him.  After taking a deep breath, she attempted to focus her thoughts on the thu’um but she found that the power sort of grew within her, forcing itself up and out.

“ _FUS_ ”

The shout felt stronger this time and nearly knocked Argnier off his feet.  Elspeth gasped as he recovered.  “Well,” he said, “it would seem that you have the natural inclination.”  He studied her face some more.  She looked a bit bewildered.  “Is something the matter?” he asked.

She pursed her lips and looked at him intently, praying to the gods that what she was about to say would not sound stupid or make her seem unworthy of this new power or skill, or whatever it was.  “It doesn’t feel right,” she said.  “It feels familiar but uncomfortable.”  Master Arngeir didn’t respond.  He simply looked at her intently.  His silence was awkward and so she continued, stumbling over her words.  “I’m a Breton and magic feels very natural to me.  But this is different and…I am not certain that I— ” she struggled to think of an appropriate thing to say.  “I don’t know if like it,” she whispered, swallowing against the anxiety in her throat.  She hadn’t told anyone this.

Arngeir nodded approvingly.  “That is good,” he said.  “For Nords who come to learn the way of the Voice, it can take years and years of deep, mindful meditation to learn what has come so easily and so suddenly to you.  Your discomfort is important; it will give you something on which to meditate.  Are you ready to learn?”

This affirmation helped ease Elspeth’s mind somewhat and she nodded.  Master Arngeir beckoned another Greybeard, Master Einarth, who proceeded to teach her RO the second word in the Unrelenting Force shout.  The dragon language came so easily; the word simply echoed in her head as if she had known it all along.  But she didn’t feel strong enough to use it just yet.  Master Arngeir expected as much.

“While you meditate, Master Einarth will share with you his power so that you will be able to utilize the word you just learned.  I show your companions where you will be staying.”  Elspeth watched as they wandered off toward the back of the building before she turned to kneel with Master Einarth.  Then she closed her eyes and attempted what she hoped was meditating, but her mind kept wandering.  She had little experience with this sort of thing.  Xeri never cared for it.  She made Elspeth do specific breathing and focusing exercises as a way to help control her fear.  She supposed that was similar to meditating, but the point was never to get inside her own mind or expand her knowledge.  The point was to avoid being killed.

When she opened her eyes she saw Master Einarth staring at her sternly.  She looked down uncomfortably and cleared her throat before trying again.  Master Arngeir mentioned her _discomfort_  as something she could meditate on and she thought back to that, the peculiar feel that was simultaneously familiar and strange.  Eventually she found herself slipping into a meditative state and felt it again: a sensation similar to when she absorbed the dragon soul.  It caused her to tense up, but she held herself still until it was over.  When she opened her eyes again, Master Einarth was leaving, and Master Arngeir and Lydia were waiting for her.

Master Arngeir nodded as she approached them.  “And how did that go?” he asked.

“I couldn’t focus at first,” she confessed.  “But I thought about what you said, about the discomfort.  And then I focused on that and felt something like when I took the dragon’s soul.  Did I do it correctly?”

Lydia chuckled.  For all her self-reliance, Elspeth was still very much the student, seeking approval from her mentor.  Master Arngeir too let out a gentle laugh.  “What you felt was Master Einarth sharing his power with you,” he explained.  “As to your meditation, starting with your discomfort is good.  Get some rest now.  Tomorrow you will demonstrate the word you learned today and then Master Borri will teach you a word for a new shout.  Do you have any questions for me?”

Elspeth thought for a moment.  Finally, she looked at him and asked, “Master Arngeir, what do the Greybeards want from me?”

“We don’t want anything  _from_  you,” he replied.  “The Greybeards are here to guide you, to help bring you to your destiny.”

“You know about my destiny?” she asked, her voice rising slightly.  “Can you tell me what it is?  What I need to do?”

Master Arngeir smiled again and shook his head.  “No, we cannot tell you what to do.  We summoned you here, but all we can offer is the knowledge and wisdom we’ve gained over the years.”  Elspeth nodded.  She was disappointed though not surprised to hear this.

“Let’s get you to bed,” said Lydia, reaching out and gently steering Elspeth toward their quarters.

Elspeth smiled and pulled closer to Lydia.  “Are you feeling any better?”

“A bit,” she said as they walked back toward their sleeping quarters.  “Still having some wretched thoughts but I feel calmer now.”

“Good,” said Elspeth as they entered the room where Trygve was already sleeping.

Lydia fell asleep almost immediately, while Elspeth lay awake on the uncomfortable bed, staring up into the darkness.   _Dragonborn_ , she thought.  _I am the…._   But she couldn’t even complete the thought.  She let out a deep breath.  Trygve’s light snoring disrupted the otherwise heavy stillness that pervaded High Hrothgar and to quell the anxious thoughts starting to creep back into her mind, she focused on the steady rhythm of his breathing, letting it lull her into a deep sleep.

*****

“ _FUS RO_ ”

The shout came out with a fury that, had they not summoned ethereal targets, would have knocked the Greybeards over.  Master Arngeir was astonished at the sheer strength and precision of her thu’um while Elspeth remained ambivalent.

“We will perform your next trial in the courtyard where Master Borri will teach you the first word of a new shout called Whirlwind Sprint,” said Master Arngeir.  “Come this way Dragonborn.”

Dragonborn.  It just sounded wrong.  She wanted to correct him, like when her temple and guild instructors used to call her Elsbeth or worse, Beth,[*](https://elspethaurilie.wordpress.com/2013/01/11/book-two-chapter-six-and-theyre-there-for-youfor-you-alone-you-are-the-everything/#_edn1) but it seemed inappropriate to do so.

As they passed through the building, Elspeth wondered where Trygve and Lydia had wandered.  Trygve had been gone all morning and Lydia seemed to disappear some time after breakfast.  As it happened, they were both in the courtyard.  Lydia was wandering around aimlessly by a large fire on the eastern side of the yard, but hurried back when the Greybeards and Elspeth emerged from the building.  Trygve was meditating on the far edge of the courtyard steps.  Elspeth observed him intently for a moment.  He looked very mindful and at ease with the practice.  She wondered if it came naturally to him or if it was a skill he’d honed over the years.

Master Borri nodded for Elspeth to stand in front of him and he taught her  _WULD_. After meditating and sharing Borri’s power, Master Wulfgar demonstrated the shout, which propelled his body forward so swiftly she lost sight of the man until he appeared by the large iron gate on the other end of the yard.

The goal of the trial was to use the thu’um to clear the gate at the end of the courtyard before Borri closed it.   Elspeth stepped forward, steadied herself, and shouted.

_“WULD”_

She felt her body propel through the air.  The movement itself was some how both exhilarating and disorienting and so swift that the snow in the air felt like icy-pricks against her skin.  And when she stopped, she fell with a hard smack on the icy, stone path and smashed her shoulder against the metal gate as it came crashing shut.  The fall sent painful jolts up her spine and down her arm.  She quickly scrambled to her feet and walked back to where the Greybeards and Lydia were waiting.

“Try again,” said Master Arngeir.  “The thu’um is perfect.  You just need to figure out how to stop.”

Elspeth was perfectly comfortable with constant, diligent training and began to enjoy the act of repeating the thu’um over and over.  It brought to mind her training days, which, although harsh, were familiar.  However, as she approached her 50th attempt at WULD that day, she feared everyone was becoming impatient.  With the Greybeards it was almost impossible to tell.  Masters Einarth and Wulfgar remained expressionless.  Master Borri nodded a lot, and seemed to offer more gentle encouragement, while Master Arngeir was baffled by her inability to stop and told her to be more mindful.  “Breath and focus,” he urged.  Over and over, she tried to shift her concentration as she shouted, but she always wound up on the ground.  She was becoming frustrated and tired.

By then Trygve had ended his meditation and joined the group, observing quietly with everyone.  Elspeth felt awkward, assuming he was there, not simply to watch but rather to scrutinize and judge.  When he spoke up, she shot him a terrible look.

“Elspeth,” he said calmly, ignoring her obvious irritation.  “When you start, you pull the weight of your upper body backwards, like when you pull back to cast your spells.  Stop doing that.  Loosen up and shift your weight a little more to the front.  Then shout.”

She wanted to ignore him.  He had made the pilgrimage twice before, but had never studied the Voice.  What could he possibly know?  But her backside was frozen and sore and he had a point; she had been so focused on her mind that she had given little consideration to her bearing.  Once again, she stepped up but this time steadied herself as Trygve instructed, and shouted.

_“WULD”_

For the umpteenth time, she felt the surge as she was propelled through the air, icy-prickles stinging her face, and when she stopped, she gasped.  She was on her feet.  Not on bottom or her hip.  The gate crashed behind her, not against her shoulder or back.

When she approached, the Greybeards nodded solemnly but approvingly.  She looked at Trygve and took a deep breath and paused, feeling rather embarrassed at her annoyance.  “Thank you,” she said finally.

“Any time,” he said and offered a quick grin before he turned around and walked back to the building with Master Wulfgar and Master Einerth, while Master Borri and Master Arngeir stayed behind.  Borri held out his hand and when Elspeth took it, he squeezed it gently.  His affectionate gesture took Elspeth by surprise.  She smiled in kind and looked back at Master Arngeir.

“You have done very well here Dragonborn,” he said.

“Thank you, Master Arngeir,” she said.  She wasn’t certain if it was her weariness or if she was genuinely warming up to it, but being addressed by Dragonborn didn’t seem quite so awkward now.

“We have one final test for you,” he continued.  “A task if you will.”  He grinned as he noticed her face brighten at the word  _task_.  “You may stay and continue to meditate and practice as you need.  After that, you are to retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller from his temple in the ancient fane of Ustengrav.  Remain true to the Way of the Voice and you will return.”

After he left, Lydia slung her arm through Elspeth’s and they walked to the edge of the yard together.  It was getting late and the view was obscured by fog. “I can’t believe I almost missed this.”  She looked intently at Elspeth who appeared somewhat relaxed.  It was an unusual look for her.  “Are you all right?” she asked.

Elspeth nodded and as she gazed out over the cloudy dimness, she felt an eerie calm over take her.  It wasn’t particularly soothing; it simply held her suspended in the moment, without the weight of the past or the fear of the future.   Then she what could only be described as a moment of clarity.

I am Dragonborn, she thought.  It wasn’t comfortable, but it was no longer strange.

It was simply true.

* * *

[*](https://elspethaurilie.wordpress.com/2013/01/11/book-two-chapter-six-and-theyre-there-for-youfor-you-alone-you-are-the-everything/#_ednref) This is an Easter egg referencing my childhood.  Beth is a perfectly acceptable name, but it wasn’t mine and teachers used it anyway.  Drove me crazy.


	9. Something that Digs at Us

“Don’t be stupid, farmers have been using hilled rows for hundreds of years.  It’s an efficient and effective method.  If it weren’t, they would have found something else.”

“If efficient and effective is all you want, then yes hilled rows are preferable.  But I’m telling you, my best tasting crop was grown in a raised bed I put next to my house.”

“You’re wrong, Trygve.”

“How could I be wrong?”

Elspeth was starting to miss the silence that had characterized the early part of their journey.  After several days at High Hrothgar, they made their way to Ustengrav.  Lydia had resumed her silent brooding although it seemed that she was no longer mired in the depths of despair; Trygve was quiet in deep, pensive sort of way.  And as they got farther and farther away from the safe confines of High Hrothgar, Elspeth’s anxiety over being Dragonborn returned.  Rather than confide it, however, she tried to remain focused on the task at hand.  When that didn’t work, she thought about Onmund.  The ache in her heart that missing him inspired was preferable to the weight in her gut when she thought about being Dragonborn and the raw, mysterious power she now possessed.

On the fourth day of their trip, Trygve led them through a shortcut over the border into Hjaalmarch hold.  Snow wolves were in abundance, though they proved to be more of a nuisance than a danger.  Trygve killed them easily, always with a single shot.  And while Lydia rarely missed, she used twice as many arrows, sometimes only disabling the creatures and needing to finish them off with her axe.  They were adequate kills, but she found herself growing increasing irritated by Trygve’s efficiency and grace.  And she became even more annoyed when he told Elspeth to stop using fire and shock spells because she was ruining perfectly good furs.

That’s when the bickering began.

At first, they were simply chatting about the supplies they needed to procure in Morthal, but it wasn’t long before he and Lydia were at it.  Elspeth soon learned that there was not a single topic they wouldn’t squabble over.   _Mead, Honningbrew or Black Briar_?  _Heavy armor, Orcish or ebony?  Horkers, friends or food?_

Elspeth was happy to lend her opinion on matters of food and drink, or weapons and armor, but when the conversation turned to the issue of whether or not Steward Falk Firebeard  _seemed_ like the sort of fellow who might run a brothel, Elspeth groaned and covered her ears.  Lydia was determined to have the last word on everything and Trygve treated each and every argument with his trademark seriousness.  If he was joking, there was no way to tell as his countenance betrayed little more than complete sincerity.

“Okay genius, tell me this.  Where is all the soil needed to fill those beds going to come from?  And how much will it cost for all the extra labor and supplies?”

“Lydia, I am not making a case for an overhaul of large-scale farming methods.  Stop misconstruing my point.”

“You’re still wrong.”

Well, Elspeth thought as they approached Morthal, at least they were arguing potatoes and not politics.  As they entered the town, they hurried past Highmoon Hall where several residents were embroiled in an argument with Alsfur.  The reason for the confrontation was not clear, but the steward was desperately trying to assure the angry and frightened townsfolk that the Jarl was aware of their concerns and that she would take care of them.

“Idgrod and her damned wizard,” muttered Trygve as they entered Moorside Inn.  Elspeth went to protest, but thought better of it when she considered the argument that would ensue. The Inn was quiet and empty but for the Bard and the proprietor, Jonna, who was thrilled to have a group of hungry guests to feed.  After they rented a room and washed up they settled in for an enormous meal of salmon steak, steamed mudcrab legs, roasted potatoes, snowberry crostata, bread, and mead.  Trygve’s seemingly never-ending supply of dried venison ensured that they were never hungry on the road, but there was something about hot, fresh food that made everyone feel famished.  Within moments of being served, there was no more bickering, no talking at all, nothing but the sound of appetites being sated.

Despite the good food and warm hearth, Elspeth found herself feeling a bit sad as she recalled the last time she stayed at the Inn, drinking and brawling with Benor.  It had been less than two months since the incident at Northwatch Keep and yet it seemed like it happened in another lifetime.  She let her thoughts wander as she rested her head on her arm while Lydia annihilated another piece of crostata and Trygve finished his drink.  Her eyes grew heavy and she so she closed them for just a moment.

*****

“Wake up!”

Elspeth groaned as she peered out from under her bearskin to find Trygve standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, and sporting a grin that might have been endearing if she wasn’t so resistant to getting out of bed.

“Go away.”  Lydia’s voice was muffled under the blanket next to her.

“Get up,” he was insistent but not harsh.  “You can’t possibly be tired.”

At least he wasn’t chipper, Elspeth thought.  But he was right.  She was well rested and in other circumstances would have been perfectly keen on starting the day **.**   But it was the first comfortable bed she’d had in weeks.   And by Trygve’s estimate, they could be on the road by early evening, which meant that it would be at least another week before she would be sleeping in her own bed.  And that’s assuming they  _would_  be heading back to Whiterun.

“Come on!”  Trygve yanked the bearskin away, causing Elspeth to shudder and curl into a ball.  “Oh please,” he said.  “It’s not that cold—even for a Breton.  Are you not feeling well?”  He cocked his head and looked at her intently.

“I feel fine,” she said as she rolled on to her back and stared at the ceiling, once again trying to regain the clarity she’d attained before they left the Greybeards so that she could focus on the task and not what might come after.  She hadn’t even begun to consider what being Dragonborn would mean to the College and the Psijic Order, if it would mean anything at all.  For now, she had to believe that she could simple bring the horn to the Greybeards, return to Whiterun, and find comfor **t** in Onmund’s arms.  The bigger picture, the next  _thing_ —it was simply too much.

Trygve just stood there, staring at them with his lips pursed.  Finally, after some more grumbling and stretching, the women were up and dressed.  Jonna had food ready and after a hearty breakfast of cured meat, porridge, and warm mead, they left, traveling by foot through the foggy marshes that bordered the town.  The ruin was not far, but their journey was slow as they trudged along cautiously—avoiding pockets of cold slushy water, picking off frostbite spiders, and waiting as Trygve’s harvested alchemy ingredients

“Did you know,” he said as he held up the toxic petals of the deathbell flower, “that deathbell is one of Skyrim’s most poisonous plants, second only to Nirnroot?  Well, there is also the poison bloom, but that is so rare, it’s found in little more than fairy tales at this point.”

“Yes,” said Elspeth as she let out an impatient groan.  “You’re not the only alchemist here.”

“Though common,” he continued, “this plant is shrouded in mystery and myth.  Some claim that it grows where individuals have met their untimely and unfortunate demise.  Others say that it grows and lures unsuspecting people to their deaths.” The steady cadence of his voice never wavered.  He was impervious, it seemed, to the irritation he very clearly inspired in others.

“What do you think?” asked Lydia, somewhat incredulous that their otherwise practical acquaintance was regaling them with the mythology of Skyrim’s fauna.

“I don’t care,” said Trygve, shrugging his shoulders.  “Like any Nord, I enjoy a good tale.  But really, the only thing that matters is that I can concoct a deadly poison with these.  I’m going to test this on the dragon scales I harvested.”  He stopped and put his hand to his face, gripping his chin in his fingers.  “I wonder if could enhance the blood-freezing properties of spider venom by…” His voice trailed off and he just stood there thinking, as Elspeth and Lydia rolled their eyes and started walking toward the direction of Ustengrav, despite the fact that they were likely to get lost without him.

As if on cue, Trygve shifted his attention again and stepped ahead of the women.  Soon they were crouched and waiting just outside the ruin where Elspeth cast a detection spell.

“I’ve detected about three creatures,” she explained.  “By their size and shape, it’s people.  Probably the bandits Jonna mentioned last night.”  They stepped around so that they could see the group near the ruin, which turned out to be two bandits fighting a necromancer.  Elspeth’s eyes widened in eager anticipation and she readied her casting hand.  She gestured for Trygve to draw the bandits out, but he looked at her intently and shook his head.  Lydia covered her mouth and chuckled lightly.  Trygve could deal with Elspeth’s zeal now.  He could try to rein her in as she bounced around, throwing herself into scuffles with every bandit and necromancer this side of White River.

Elspeth looked back at Trygve with confusion, but he simply lowered his hand to her shoulder and whispered in her ear.  “Just watch,” he said as if the most interesting thing in the world was about to happen.  Elspeth furrowed her brow, and much to Lydia’s surprise, stood back and waited.  Whether by stealth or melee combat, Elspeth always preferred to step into the fray.

The powerful necromancer destroyed the bandits in mere moments and came directly into view as he walked around to inspect his kill.  Elspeth and Trygve nodded to each other and with an expertly aimed arrow and shock spell, swiftly killed the mage.

“Well, it’s good to see someone can temper your enthusiasm,” said Lydia, somewhat sardonically and Elspeth couldn’t tell if she was joking or genuinely upset at how she and Trygve had worked together.

“I’d like to think it’s less about tempering enthusiasm and more about conserving energy for the more powerful thing that’s lurking around the corner,” explained Trygve as he looked down toward the entrance to the ruins.  “Deathlords and the like.”  It wasn’t anything that Xeri hadn’t told her a million times before, but unlike the harsh, demanding tenor of her mentor’s demands, or the way that Lydia tended to give up or simply throw herself into whatever skirmish Elspeth wanted to join, there was something persuasive in Trygve’s demeanor, his matter-of-factness.

He led them through the ruin’s entrance, which opened to a wide hallway and on to a several large, well-lit rooms.  They came upon a scene similar to the one they’d encountered outside: bandits and mages.  Once again, they waited as the mages made mincemeat of the bandits and then a big longer, as the draugr that had been disturbed by the brawl assaulted the mages.

When the mages were dead, they confronted the draugr.  Trygve stayed at range, while Elspeth and Lydia moved in.  Elspeth used spells to hold them while Lydia cut them down with her axe.  It was like a carefully choreographed dance and they moved through the ruin like this, up narrow stairways, across bridges, killing draugr as they went, until they came to a door.

This door opened to a dimly lit hallway, with tree branches and roots covering the floor and ceiling.  They walked deliberately, feeling their way toward a light ahead of them.  When they approached, Elspeth let out an audible gasp as they discovered a massive forested cavern that was illuminated by sunlight coming through cracks in the ceiling.

“Wow,” said Lydia as she stepped ahead.  “Would you look at that?”

Indeed, Elspeth didn’t want to stop looking at it.  It was eerie and beautiful and she wanted to sit and empty her head of everything but the echo of the rushing waterfall.

Lydia sensed her contentment and smiled before beckoning her back toward the ruin.  “Let’s find the path to the bottom,” she suggested.  They continued to move through the ruin, killing draugr and skeletons, and soon found themselves on the path that led them to the bottom of the cavern, a misty grove that, in addition to pine trees and other common forest plants, contained a wall similar to the one they discovered in Bleak Falls Barrow.  Elspeth approached it cautiously, and once again heard a sound and felt a vibration.  This time, however, the deep hollow sound formed a word in her head that she could decipher.

_Feim_

And she knew it meant fade, but she wasn’t sure why or how she knew this.  Or what might happen if she dared say the word, while drawing that peculiar power from deep within herself.  She wanted to laugh at the strangeness of it all, but she simply couldn’t.  She looked around and saw that Trygve and Lydia were settling down and pulling dried meat, fruit, and mead out of their satchels.  Was all of this strange for them too, she wondered?  She walked back and sat next to Lydia who nudged her affectionately and smiled as she handed her some food.

Trygve looked around as he chewed his food and swallowed the last gulp of his mead.  He tilted his head and pointed to a bridge running directly over them.

“That’s where we need to go next,” he said.

The women nodded and finished their food.  Elspeth was comfortable on the damp duff and was rather reluctant to get up, which was unlike her.  Lydia looked at her intently; Elspeth wasn’t normally inclined to sitting idly about and she became concerned for her, realizing just how weary the notion of being Dragonborn was making her.  Meanwhile, Trygve just became impatient.

“No lo—”

“Say lollygagging and I will cut you.”  It was adorable when Toki said it to shoo the town children away from the market stalls but Lydia found it utterly exasperating coming from Trygve.  Elspeth simply laughed as she stood up and brushed wet leaves and sticky pine needles from her armor.

Just over the bridge, they came to a room whose exit was blocked by three gates that appeared to be controlled by three stones.  Standing near a stone caused it to light up and open a gate. But every time Elspeth moved away from her stone, its gate came crashing down.  In order to pass through, they had to keep the three stones glowing simultaneously.

“We need a fourth person,” said Lydia.  “Someone to light the last stone while Elspeth pulls the chain on the other side.  Maybe a draugr thrall can stand there.”

“I don’t know enough conjuration magic to reanimate a draugr,” Elspeth replied.  She tried casting a familiar, but the ethereal wolf did not keep the stone lit.

“You need to shout and sprint across,” said Trygve.

Damn, she thought.  He was probably right.  “I wonder if the Greybeards knew about this,” she said as she studied the path between the stones and the tunnel.  It was far more dangerous than the practice setup back at High Hrothgar.  One slip and the gate would come crashing down on her head.

She did two practice sprints before she readied herself in front of the tunnel.  Then, after taking a deep breath, she steadied herself and shouted,  _WULD_.

The gate grazed her back as it came crashing down and she quickly turned and pulled the chain so Lydia and Trygve could join her.

The subsequent rooms were filled with spiders and the floors rigged with firetraps.  After a few minor burns, they managed to make their way through.  Finally, after cutting through a thick web they found the end of the ruin.

“That’s the tomb ahead,” said Trygve as they approached.  It was decorated with ancient dragon carvings and adorned with a carved hand that seemed to reach out from the top.  The horn, however, was nowhere to be found.  Instead, the hand held a slip of folded paper, which Elspeth took and read.

_Dragonborn–_

_I need to speak to you. Urgently._

_Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I’ll meet you._

_–A friend_

“Oh for the love of Talos,” she exclaimed as she handed the note to Lydia and slumped down on the step.  And in that moment, four days of pushing her anxieties aside came crashing down on her head.  She didn’t wail or scream in frustration, she simply looked at Lydia with tears in her eyes and asked, “Why can’t it ever be simple?”

“Elspeth,” Trygve interjected.  “This is merely a detour and it’s probably about as simple as you could possibly—”

“Shut up Trygve.”  Lydia put her arm around Elspeth’s shoulder and pulled her close.  “He’s not wrong,” she whispered.

“I know,” she said, her voice trembling.  “It’s just…this is really unnerving me.  And I feel like it shouldn’t.”  She stopped.  This wasn’t the first time they’d been thwarted from a goal.  But the anxiety was becoming overwhelming and it was something she couldn’t explain.

Lydia bit her lip and thought for a moment.  “Xeri prepared you for so much,” she said.  “She trained you for just about everything you could possibly confront, but this is bigger, it’s….” Her voice trailed off.  She had no idea what to say, how to put things into perspective.  But such angst would leave Elspeth vulnerable and feeling sorry for herself and that was dangerous.  She looked up at Trygve, half expecting him to scoff at them both.  To her surprise, he did not.

“You were trained to be a warrior Elspeth,” he said.  “No one can train to be a legend.  That’s what you have to figure that out as you go along.  But the tasks are still just tasks.”

Elspeth let out a deep breath and nodded reluctantly as Lydia helped her to her feet.  She looked at the note again and said, “I guess we’re off to Riverwood to meet my new friend.”

“Maybe this friend will buy the good mead,” suggested Trygve.

“You mean Honningbrew?”

“Black Briar reserve.”

“Trygve, you’re wrong again.”


	10. The Ground's Not Cold

Elspeth lowered her eyes to her plate and tried not to stare as Trygve entered and walked across the common spaceof the Sleeping Giant Inn.  At the counter he requested the attic room and was directed instead to the one on the left.  After several moments, the proprietor—a short, blond, serious looking Breton—followed and then led him to the room directly across, where they disappeared together. 

“She looks familiar,” said Lydia.  She looked back toward the front of the Inn for a few moments longer before tilting her head and finishing the last swig of mead in her tankard.

Elspeth nodded in agreement and looked around some more.  “Let’s go home,” she said after several moments.  “Trygve can be the Dragonborn.”

Lydia snickered.  “You’d like that wouldn’t you?” She looked at Elspeth intently and sighed.  “I’m sorry we didn’t stop in Whiterun overnight.  You must miss Onmund terribly.”

“I do.”  She looked wistful for a moment.  “But Trygve is probably correct.  We need to finish this business with the horn first.”  She paused and pushed her hair behind her ears.  “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“I won’t,” she said as she looked toward the bar to see if Trygve had returned.  When she saw that he hadn’t, she turned back to Elspeth to prod her on the Dragonborn issue.  “How are you doing?  With the whole Dragonborn thing?  I’m sorry I haven’t been all that attentive.”

Elspeth had noticed.  The silence between them, those first days leaving Whiterun and then after High Hrothgar had stirred up intense feelings of loneliness, akin to those felt after Xeri threw her back into training after the purge on the university.  Back then, however, she had only whatever task Xeri concocted and the loneliness was borne from actually being alone.  Now, it was different.   But she didn’t want Lydia to feel bad about that.  “You don’t have to apologize,” she said as she sat back in her chair and pulled her foot up to rest on the bench in front of her.  “It’s overwhelming so I’ve been trying to focus on the tasks.”

“Maybe that’s all you can do right now,” Lydia leaned forward on her elbow and poked at the food in her bowl with her spoon.

“How are _you_ doing?”  On this Lydia was becoming impossible to read.  At first she was so obviously distraught and lately, she seemed a bit calmer but was still distant.

“You know, sometimes I have these amazing flashes of confidence and strength and I know it’s for the best.” Lydia dropped her head and let out a deep breath.  “But most of the time I pray to the Nine that Balgruuf sent him to Solstheim or Cyrodiil or even The Reach, so I don’t have to think about who he’s using to distract himself from his heartache.”  Her voice betrayed the chill that clutched in one’s chest when those thoughts emerged.

“I’m sorry,” said Elspeth.  She knew how sharply that pain cut and hearing it in her friend’s voice made her feel terrible.  Lydia nodded and smiled weakly as she turned back to her stew.

They procured more mead and a plate of freshly baked apple dumplings and sat quietly for close to an hour before Trygve emerged from the room into which he had retreated with the other Breton.  He gestured toward the table where Lydia and Elspeth were sitting and the woman looked back at them skeptically.  After several moments, Tryvge ordered some mead from Orgnar and strode over to the table.  He was grinning as he sat down, though he still scanned the room cautiously before lowering his head to speak.

“She gave me this,” he began as he placed a horn on the table in front of them.  “Her name is Delphine and she has amassed an incredible amount of information on the dragons and the Dragonborn.  She believes that the dragons are being resurrected from various burial mounds around Skyrim.”  Trygve looked at Elspeth whose face had darkened at hearing this, but continued on.  “Apparently she’s been working Balgruuf’s court wizard on this.”  He didn’t say as much, but Trygve seemed impressed by this woman.

“That’s right!” said Lydia suddenly.  “She was the one talking to Farengar when we delivered the dragonstone.”  Elspeth nodded in agreement before turning her attention back to Trygve.

“She’s used that stone to figure out where the dragons are buried.  She thinks the next one to be resurrected will be in Kynsegrove, in a couple of days.”  He paused and took a long drink from his tankard.  “We’re heading there tomorrow.  She wants to see for herself if I’m the Dragonborn.”  He looked down into his cup and smirked as if he found the very notion amusing.

“If she gave you the horn, why exactly do you…or rather, Elspeth…whoever…why do we have to prove anything to her?”

“Well, we really don’t,” Trygve seemed to agree.  “But she’s gathered an impressive amount of information.  She’s got a secret basement stocked with supplies—weapons, potions.”  He took another drink of his mead as he looked back toward the women.  “She could be a useful ally.”  He smiled into his cup again.  Lydia and Elspeth looked at each other.  He wasn’t impressed; he was smitten.

“Okay then,” said Elspeth.  “If she has information we need, I hope she’ll forgive our little ruse.”

“If she’s truly an ally, she’ll understand,” said Lydia and Trygve nodded enthusiastically.

Elspeth looked at both of them and smiled as she rounded her back and stretched her arms forward.  “It’s so sweet when you two agree on something.”  She yawned and looked at Lydia.  “I’m going to bed.  Are you going to stay up?”  Lydia shook her head as she popped the last bit of her apple dumpling in her mouth and washed it down with the rest of her mead before waving Trygve good night and following Elspeth to the room they’d rented.

*****

The ride to Kynsgrove was difficult.  Despite the cold, the day was clear and sunny—likely one of the last before winter.  Bandits and other nomads, as well as animals preparing for their seasonal torpor, were out in abundance—lots of mean creatures trying to shore up their supplies before the storms would cover the rest of Skyrim in blankets of snow and sheets of ice.

As they rode along, stopping to fend off bandits and bears, Elspeth observed Trygve and Delphine together. Delphine seemed utterly captivated by Trygve.  When they fought, she admired his form.  And when they talked, she hung on every word.  Elspeth began to feel that she and Lydia were intruding on _something_ though she wasn’t sure exactly what.

“Do you think it’s the Dragonborn she wants all to herself or just Trygve?”  Lydia’s whispered and her face contorted a bit at this thought as Elspeth giggled and observed them some more.  They were well matched, stern and serious, agreeing on just about everything and conceding each other’s points when they didn’t.  However, there was no flirtation between them, nothing that would otherwise precede intimacy or affection.  It was all business: tactics and strategy, combat styles and weapons.

Delphine also happened to be a skilled swordsman, wielding two blades at once.  Try as she might, Elspeth couldn’t help but be impressed.  The longer of her two blades seemed familiar, but when she asked to take a closer look, Delphine sheathed it quickly and told her to mind her own business.

“Four is too many,” Elspeth muttered to herself as Delphine turned back to Trygve, resuming a previous discussion regarding his extensive scouting experience and the various holds whose landmarks and locations he had mapped.

It was late afternoon when they arrived two days later.  As they neared Kynesgrove, Delphine pointed toward a clearing up the road where they would spend the night.  Elspeth scowled as she dismounted Pickles.  She was tired of camping.  But she refused to be shown up by the humorless Breton and so she stayed quiet.

“Kynsegrove has a perfectly good inn.  Why don’t we just stay there?”  Lydia protested.  She had sensed Elspeth’s discomfort.

“I know how nosy and suspicious these small town Nords can be,” Delphine replied sternly.  “Especially the inn-keepers.”

“But Elspeth really needs a bath.”  Lydia was insistent and Elspeth was somewhat embarrassed, though she soon recovered when she realized how wonderful a bath would be at that point.

“It’s true,” she said.  “I stink.  Though not as bad as Trygve.”

“You know,” said Delphine, her irritation was obvious, “neither of you really need to be here.”

Lydia took a deep breath and coughed into her closed fist as if she were disguising a laugh.  Elspeth cocked her head and looked at Trygve who had been doing his best to ignore their bickering as he walked along.  “Have you seen a dragon, Delphine?  Up close?” he asked without looking over.

“Well…no.”  Delphine crossed her arms and glowered as she looked away from the others.

Trygve grunted and shook his head as he replied.  “Elspeth was at Helgen when the dragon attacked.  And she and Lydia were both at the Western Watchtower when I took the dragon’s power.  I think it would be better if they stayed.”  Elspeth looked around uncomfortably as he spun this tale.  It was strange to hear him say it, although part of her wished it were true.

Delphine let out a sigh.  “Fine,” she said.

They stopped in the clearing, but just as Trygve began rifling through his horse’s saddlebags for supplies, they heard a familiar roaring shriek.  They glanced up briefly before tying their horses and gathering their weapons.  Following the direction of the screech, they ran toward Kynesgrove, where a frantic woman nearly crashed into them as they hurried up the road.

“NO!” she shouted, trying to catch her breath.  “You don’t want to go up there!  A dragon…it’s attacking!”

Delphine wedged herself between Trygve and the woman.  “Where did you see this dragon?” she demanded.

“It flew over the town and landed on the old burial mound.”  The woman barely finished talking before she picked up and started running again.

Trygve led the group as they ran up the path through town.  They stopped and crouched by an outcropping of rocks, where they could see the enormous black dragon hovering over the burial mound.

“Well, look at this!” said Trygve. “Appears we got here just in the nick of time.  What does that make us?”

“Big damn heroes,” said Lydia.

Delphine rolled her eyes and stepped in front of Elspeth.  “Stay back.  And hold your fire,” she advised as Trygve readied his bow.  “We need to see what happens.”

Elspeth gasped as she craned her neck to get a better look.  “I think that’s the dragon from Helgen,” she said.

“You recognize him?”  Delphine asked; her eyes transfixed on the dragon.

“Yes,” Elspeth said quietly although what she felt was not really that sort of recognition.  He didn’t _look_ familiar; he _felt_ familiar and the angst that feeling inspired might have been overwhelming, had she not been so distracted by what happened next.

“This is worse than I thought,” said Delphine.  Her voice, which had been so stern and so confident, was now filled with dread.

 _Sahloknir_! _Ziil_ _gro dovah ulse! Slen Tiid Vo!_

The black dragon was shouting toward the ground, and his voice was so strong that it sent powerful vibrations through the air.  Elspeth strained to understand as she had with the words she’d learned from the greybeards and the word walls, but she could not translate.  That was off little consequence, however.  Soon, the effects of his shouts became apparent.  From the burial mound, a dragon was being resurrected—its skeletal form emerging, almost limping from the ground.  Its bones lit up with a spectacular, fiery glow as dark skin and scales formed around its enormous frame.  Then it began to speak.

 _Alduin_ , _thuri_ _! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?_

“Alduin!” exclaimed Trygve.  “Did he just say Alduin?”  He looked around at the women, all astonished and ignoring him, until Elspeth broke her stare.

“I think we’ve seen enough,” she said as she nudged Trygve.  “Lydia and I will take the new one.  You and Delphine get the big one.”

Trygve nodded, but it was too late.  After the black Dragon shouted some more incomprehensible words, he flew up and out of eyeshot and only the newly resurrected dragon remained.

“So much for that plan,” grunted Elspeth.

“Lydia, you draw his fire while Elspeth and I get him to land,” said Trygve gesturing to her shield.  “Delphine, stay with Lydia and rush in when he’s down.  Everyone got it?”  He took a quick glance at them before nocking his bow.  “GO!” He shouted and Lydia and Delphine ran, drawing the dragon’s attention away.

Elspeth alternated between powerful chain-lightening and frost spells while Trygve nailed him with poison dipped arrows.  She tried to keep an eye out, but within moments she lost Lydia and Delphine behind the dragon’s spray of fire.  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the dragon appeared to be weakening and she and Trygve ran closer.  Trygve aimed for the dragon’s underbelly, and Elspeth drew her sword to prepare to join Delphine.

She was just beneath the dragon’s wing as he came crashing down and Elspeth hacked away, slicing through his legs and tail.  When Lydia and Delphine approached, the dragon lowered his neck, spewing fire.  Delphine jumped, just barely out of reach of his snapping jaws.  She readied her blades, but the dragon lurched and knocked her clear across the ground.

Elspeth, who was crouched next to the dragon’s legs, knew she had but seconds as he brought his head down.  She sprinted forward with her blade drawn, as she sliced the dragon’s neck open and jammed her sword into his jowl.  The dragon made a terrifying gurgling noise as he tried to roar one last time.  Blood poured out of the gaping tear in its maw and onto her head and shoulders before he finally flopped down.  Elspeth put her foot on the dragon’s face and pulled her sword out before wiping her face and wandering over to where Delphine had tumbled.

Trygve was helping Delphine to her feet and Lydia came around from behind the dragon’s corpse.   There was a brief silence as they waited.  Delphine turned back to look at Trygve, but he shook his head and gestured toward Elspeth.  And as it had happened before, the dragon’s corpse lit up.  Delphine ducked back but soon she realized the glowing embers of the dragon’s bones and skin were not hot enough to burn.

Within moments, Elspeth felt it again—the overwhelming sensation that that penetrated her very core before flowing through every vein and along every nerve, and finally sending a shudder through her bones.  It was more familiar this time and yet somehow no less strange.  She wondered if how many times this would happen before it would feel normal.  Perhaps it wouldn’t.  Perhaps each soul, each dragon’s center of power was unique and would feel different every time.

She was pondering this as Delphine approached her with her hand out but Elspeth stepped away.   “You tricked me,” she said as she pulled her hand back; her tone was firm but not accusatory.

“We deceived you,” said Lydia.  “Trick makes it sound like we have a playful relationship.”  She grinned and winked at Elspeth.

“It was smart.  I’ll give you that,” said Delphine.  “I suppose you have questions for me.”

Elspeth shifted her gaze along the ground until she saw what she was looking for.  She stepped forward and picked up Delphine’s long sword from where she dropped it.   Her father had one just like it.  And on their many trips to the ruins of Cloud Ruler Temple, she and Xeri had recovered broken hilts and shards bearing the same design.

“You’re a Blade,” she said as she ran her fingers along the design on the hilt and down the flat side, trying not to reveal the sudden urge of excitement she felt.  For a moment, there was nothing in the world she wanted more than to confide in this woman, someone who had very likely known her father.  But there was a distinct tension in her gut.  She had so many questions, the first being, could she trust her?

“How did you know that?” asked Delphine; her curiosity was piqued and her attention was now fully focused on Elspeth.

“This is an Akavriri design, is it not?” she replied as she turned the hilt toward Delphine and handed it over.

Delphine nodded.  “And what do you know of the Blades?” she asked, as she took her sword and sheathed it.  She was pleased though her tone betrayed some hesitation.

Elspeth swallowed against the nervous tension rising in her throat.  If the vision involved her father, then it made sense that she would find her way to the Blades.  But she was uncertain how much she should reveal.  She quickly glanced up at Lydia whose scowl betrayed nothing new.  She did not like Delphine and that she was a Blade did little to change that.  Trygve had sidled up next to Lydia and Elspeth was shocked to see him shaking his head and frowning as if to say, “Don’t even think about it.”

“I trained with the fighter’s guild in Bruma,” she said suddenly.  “Our captain brought us to the ruins of Cloud Ruler Temple and told us about the history of the Blades.”  Her voice trembled and her tone seemed unconvincing, but Delphine simply nodded.

“So then you must know that the Blades were dragonslayers, and we served the Dragonborn, the greatest dragonslayer.”  Elspeth nodded, but didn’t say anything as Delphine continued.  “For the last two hundred years, we’ve been searching for the next Dragonborn to guide and guard, as we are sworn to do. But we never found one. Until now.”

“Who is _we_ ,” asked Elspeth.  “Are there more of you?”

“Not that I know of,” she replied sadly.  “The Thalmor saw to that, during and after the war.”  There was a brief, somewhat awkward silence before Delphine cleared her throat and drew her arms across her chest.  “All right, we need to plan our next move.”

“I’m taking a bath,” said Elspeth adamantly.  “I have dragon’s blood drying in my ears.  After that I get a warm meal and a dry bed.”

“Not that next move,” said Delphine.  She turned to Trygve.  “You heard the name Alduin.”

Trygve nodded as Delphine put her hands over her face and shook her head.  “This is so much worse than I anticipated.  But first, we need to find out who is behind this.  I have a feeling it might be the Thalmor, but I’ll need to get proof.”

“How are you going to do that?” asked Lydia.

“I’m not sure just yet,” said Delphine.

“That dragon wasn’t conjured like a dead thrall,” said Elspeth.  “It was brought back to life. We should talk to Phinis, maybe Urag.  They’re at the College.”  Elspeth bit her lip and tried to think of something else.  She had a sudden need to impress Delphine, to show her that she was capable of something beyond the fighting.

Delphine grimaced.  “Nobody trusts those mages, way up north in their college. Gods only know what they do up there.”

“Here we go.”  Lydia rolled her eyes and shook her at head this.  And even Trygve, who, like many Nords was wary of magic and most mages, smacked forehead with his palm, dreading Elspeth’s reaction.

Elspeth was shocked.  She might have expected such a sentiment from a Nord, but coming from a Breton, it was simply baffling.  “I am a member of the College of Winterhold,” she said defensively.

“Then you can go talk to the mages.” Delphine was unmoved by Elspeth’s affiliation.  “It’s getting late.  I’m going to sleep for a bit and head back to Riverwood, check my notes, and try to find a way to investigate a possible connection to the Thalmor.”

“We’ve got to bring the horn back,” Elspeth replied.  “Then we’ll stop in Whiterun and then head to the College.”  Her fingers got tangled in a blood caked chunk of her hair as she tried to push it out of her face.  She frowned and continued, “You can send messages to Dragonsreach or the College.”

Delphine paused and looked at Trygve, “Are you coming back to camp?”  It was clear she was directing the question to him and him alone.  But if she was flirting, there was no way to tell.  Her tone was nothing other than professional.

“I’m going to stay with the Dragonborn at the Inn,” he said.  “But I will be down there presently, when I retrieve our belongings.”

“Very well,” said Delphine, nodding good-bye to the group as she turned and walked back toward Kynesgrove.

When she was out of earshot, Lydia narrowed her eyes at Trygve.  “You don’t think we can trust her either.”

Trygve narrowed his eyes at her.  “Absolutely not,” he said sharply.

“You seem to like her,” said Lydia, somewhat teasingly.

“I don’t trust everyone I like,” he said.  “Just as I don’t like everyone I trust.”  He raised his eyebrows and smirked at Lydia, while she glared at him.  “Anyway, all she needs to know right now is that Elspeth is the Dragonborn.  She doesn’t need to know that Elspeth’s father was a Blade.”

“All right!  Now that we are all in agreement, can we please go to the inn now?”  Elspeth was pleading.  “The blood has fused the top of my armor to the back of my neck.”

Lydia and Trygve turned and looked at Elspeth, the Dragonborn of legend.  She looked so painfully un-heroic, all covered in blood and sweat and dirt, that they chuckled as they turned and left the burial mound and the dragon’s corpse.

On their way to town, Elspeth thought about how often she would find herself in the middle of Skyrim covered in dragon’s blood.  To date, they were two dragons down.  How many to go, she wondered.


	11. Where the Light Won't Find You

Ed. Note: This chapter picks up where [Chapter Five](https://elspethaurilie.wordpress.com/2013/01/01/book-two-chapter-five-the-time-to-rise-has-been-engaged/) left off, with Xeri, Evangeline, and Nerussa heading off to forge an amulet. 

 

“Ladies, if these ruins frighten you, take comfort in the knowledge that I am here.”

Xeri scowled as the pretentious mage stepped ahead and up to the platform where Nerussa has used the aetherium shards to raise the enormous entrance to the ruins of Bthalft, where the ancient forge was said to be housed.

“Remind me,” she said as he moved out of earshot, “Why did we hire a mercenary?  I could be a mercenary.  You should be paying me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Evangeline, taking care to keep her voice down although she was certain that Marcurio knew exactly how the ornery Dunmer felt about him, and he simply didn’t care.  “It’s my fault.”

“Nerussa could have stopped you,” Xeri insisted.  “Though I suppose it should be expected.  Alcohol seems to have the opposite affect on a Breton’s courage.”  She smirked as she delivered this last line, indicating that as annoying as Marcurio was, she wouldn’t hold it against her.

Evangeline sighed.  The ride to Riften from Frostcrag Spire had been unremarkable but she’d silently fretted the entire time.  For years, she had taught and practiced magic and combat alongside her students but not since the war had she seen battle of any sort.  When she expressed her ambivalence about throwing herself into a Dwemer ruin, Nerussa suggested they bring along Trygve’s friend, Mjoll the Lioness, or his housecarl, Iona.  But neither woman was available.  Xeri assured them they would be fine.  They would have to.  After all, they would not be able to bring help with them for the Trials.  It was just as well they find the shard and the forge alone.

While Xeri procured supplies around town, Evangeline and Nerussa went to the Bee and Barb, where they ordered a bottle of Colovian brandy—a libation that Evangeline had not enjoyed in several years.  After several shots in quick succession, she became rather uninhibited, chatting up several patrons including a young Imperial mage while Nerussa simply looked on, amused at Evangeline’s increasing intoxication and sociability.  Before long, however, Evangeline confessed some concerns and paid Marcurio his fee.  Nerussa hadn’t stopped her because she didn’t think it was such a terrible idea.  But Xeri was furious.  And when she tried to dismiss him, he refused—even when she offered to let him keep the money.

As it turned out, Evangeline’s combat skills were rustyand Nerussa’s almost nonexistent.  Marcurio also led them to the Dwemer bridge at Deep Fork Crossing by way of Dragon Bridge, along the western fork of the Karth river—thus avoiding the tribes of Forsworn residing throughout the Reach.  Indeed, for a good portion of their journey, his skills were indispensible.

Nevertheless, Xeri found him insufferable.  He talked entirely too much for her liking, regaling them with stories of his adventures of battling the deadliest creatures in all of Skyrim: dragon priests, wispmothers, Falmer.  The elves simply ignored him, but Evangeline thought he was amusing.  He reminded her of the young mages from the Spire, particularly the newer recruits, and it was a welcome distraction from her increasing distress.  Xeri’s descriptions of Elspeth’s skills and personality had done little to assuage the growing ache in her heart, the one that she had repressed while she lived at the Spire.  Arriving in the Rift was rough.  Knowing that she would be in the same provinceas her daughter, but not able to see her, stung in ways that were simply indescribable. When he mentioned that he’d studied at Arcane University, she had to bite her tongue to keep from asking if he knew Elspeth.

“I am an apprenticed wizard, not a pack mule!  Oh very well, but make it quick.”  Marcurio’s snide tone interrupted Evangeline’s thoughts.

“Marcurio!”  Xeri hurried to the where Nerussa was trying to balance her satchel and several other items.  As she shoved him aside, she took the bag and held it open so that Nerussa could put the shards away.  “You are dismissed.”

He scowled.  “So you think you can make it on your own huh? We’ll just see about that.” He narrowed his eyes at the angry Dunmer.  “When you find the aetherium forge, what do you think is going to be guarding it?  A wee little Dwarven spider?”  He paused and looked around at the women—all three of whom were irritated with him now.   “No,” he said before anyone could bother answering.  “It will be something big, like a Centurion.”

Not even Xeri could hold back a tremble at the thought of confronting a Dwarven Centurion.  “Very well,” she said flatly.  “But could you not talk anymore?”

“You didn’t pay me not to talk.”

“Could I?”

“No.”

“All right then,” Nerussa interjected, sounding impatient for the first time on their journey.  “Shall we proceed?”

She opened the tall gate and they proceeded down the dark stone path into the ruin.  Torches perched atop large pedestals flanked the path and Xeri and Marcurio ignited these with flame spells.  Evangeline lagged a bit, stopping to inspect the carvings on the fonts and pedestals along the path.  She had never seen the inside of a Dwemer ruin before and her curiosity was almost childlike.   When she saw how far back she had fallen, she hurried to catch up.

“You were never much for exploring,” said Nerussa, as Evangeline joined her on the small platform at the end of a narrow bridge leading farther into the cavern.

“No,” she agreed.  “I never cared before.  But now…well, let’s just say that after twenty-five years in a small village with little more than a cave, my curiosity has been excited somewhat.”  She paused and rubbed her hands together as she looked around, avoiding Nerussa’s eyes.  “Besides,” she said finally, “I could use the distraction.”

The Altmer touched her on the shoulder.  “You will see her, I promise.”

Evangeline closed her eyes and nodded, but had no response.  She looked up and let her gaze wanderacross the darkened bridge in front of her.  Xeri and Marcurio had hurried ahead and Evangeline found the outlines of their figures in the distance as they ignited two large torches that lit up the entire cavern.

When she gasped, Nerussa smiled. Bthalft was not a large Dwemer ruin, not like Alftand or Mzinchalef, but Evangeline had never seen anything like it.  Massive stone columns, the size of small cottages, flanked the enormous staircase, and at the top of the stairs stood a small dead tree.  To Evangeline it stood out, small and frail, against the brassy stone structures behind it.

“How did they grow this tree here in the first place?” asked Evangeline as she touched it lightly with her fingertips, pulling a few small pieces of bark from its gnarled trunk.

“It’s astonishing, is it not?”  Marcurio mused as he sidled up next to her.  “The Dwemer were the most innovative race.  Their accomplishments in engineering and technology are still unmatched today.”  Evangeline nodded in agreement as he continued.  “They believed themselves to be equal, if not superior to the Aedra and Deadra.  Perhaps their achievements are matched only by their hubris.”

“And then they vanished,” she replied.  “See where arrogancegets you.”  She raised her eyebrows at him before stepping back to join Nerussa and Xeri.  The Dunmer was readying an arrow, aiming at one of two resonators elevated several stories from the floor.  One, two perfectly aimed shots and they spun, making dull whirring sound that echoed throughout the cavern.

The door in front of them swung open and they paused—weapons and spells readied—for any Dwarven creatures the resonators might have triggered.  They moved stealthily, down a dim, stone hallway until they reached a large room that appeared to be suspended atop a giant lava bed. Xeri entered first and within moments turned around and hurried back to the doorway, where the others were waiting.

“It’s too hot,” said Xeri, panting as beads of sweat rolled down her face.  “I couldn’t even open my eyes.”

Marcurio held up his hand.  “Do you hear that?” he asked.  “Steam.  If we turned it of, it might help.  But, we’d need to find the valves.”

“How strong are your frost spells?”  Evangeline asked him.  Surely, a mage with his skill could cast a frost cloak or wall.

He looked away and frowned; he was a bit embarrassed by this but didn’t want it to show.  “Not strong at all,” he said.   “I favor lightening and fire.  I could cast an ice-spike or rune.”

Xeri and Nerussa shook their heads.  Xeri was also not skilled in frost magic and Nerussa’s destruction skills were weak.  Evangeline rubbed her furrowed brow with her fingertips.  “All right,” she said finally.  “You’re going to cast a series of frost runes around the perimeter of the room.  I’m going to set each one off—if you stay close to me, it should stay cool enough to find the valves–though you may still get quite a few burns.”  She turned to the others.  “Keep an eye out for Dwemer creatures,” she instructed.  “The valves could trigger them and other traps.  I’m going to be healing constantly and will be fairly useless.”

It was a fool’s plan, but it was the best they had.  The elves simply watched as Marcurio and Evangeline proceeded in what looked like the most uncomfortable game of hop-a-long ever along the room’s upper platform.  They found the first valve and sure enough, turning the valve triggered a mechanism that released a passel of Dwarven spiders.  Xeri knocked them off with arrows, while Nerussa watched the platform, making sure that Evangeline’s injuries were not debilitating and that Marcurio was finding the valves.

After an hour of this, they found the last valve and the steam flow had decreased considerably, making the temperature in the room far more bearable though it was still uncomfortably hot.   Marcurio and Evangeline had collapsed against the wall, too injured and weary to move.

Xeri knelt and looked them over.  “Stay here and rest,” she said.  “Nerussa and I will—”  A rumble shook the room and a deafening clang of metal scraping against metal interrupted her.

“Oh shit!” Nerussa cried out and pointed at the Dwarven Centurion that was emerging from the lava bed.

Evangeline and Marcurio groaned as they tried to stand.  Xeri instructed them to stay and fight at range, while she darted forward, casting her strongest ward and firing chain lightening at the massive Centurion.  Xeri’s spells, though strong, would be inadequate without back up.  She said a quick prayer that her injured comrades would recover quickly and after several moments, she felt someone bumping up behind her.  It was Nerussa.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” she screamed as her ward started wavering.  “Get out of here.”

“Draw his fire that way,” said Nerussa, gesturing toward the other side of the room away from Evangeline and Marcurio.  She grabbed Xeri’s weapon—a massive Daedric mace and ran in the opposite direction.

“Wha—”  But Nerussa was off and a split second before the Centurion sent a spray of fire that would have devastated the unprotected Altmer where she ran, Xeri drew his fire in the other direction.

“Are you insane?!?”  Xeri screeched after her, but to no avail.  Nerussa had positioned herself just behind the Centurion and started mindlessly hacking away at its leg joints.  The weapon was so heavy, she needed to use both hands.  Xeri regrouped quickly and cast her spells again.  Finally, after several moments—quite possibly the longest of Xeri’s life—the Centurion came crashing down.

She was still catching her breath when Nerussa returned.  “What…the fuck…were you thinking?” she cried, her voice shaking violently.  She didn’t even try to hide her panic.

“Nerussa,” gasped Evangeline as she staggered from the platform.  She lunged forward, clutching Nerussa by the torso in an awkward embrace.

“I remember reading somewhere that Dwemer Centurions can’t lower their arms or tilt their heads,” she explained to the other women, as they caught their breath and calmed down.  “Now,” she said, grinning and gesturing to the enormous mechanism behind the destroyed Centurion.  “Let’s see about this forge.”

The forge was unlike any Evangeline had seen before.  Its hearth consisted of several raised basins; there was no anvil, no cooling trough.  She and Xeri watched carefully as Nerussa laid out her supplies on a crate she’d found and turned on its side: gold, the Ayleid soul gem, which was considerably more difficult to remove from the Staff of Worms than anyone anticipated—requiring the help of Evangeline’s most powerful enchanter who was reluctant to destroy such an artifact without an explanation.  And then there were the gems, one flawless stone for each Divine: a ruby for Arkay, an emerald for Zenithar, a diamond for Dibella, an amethyst for Mara, a garnet for Stendarr, a sapphire for Kynareth, a topaz for Julianos, and finally, a moonstone gem for Akatosh.  Evangeline still couldn’t believe it.  Moonstone ore was common enough—it was used to make much of the armor the dissident mages wore.  But moonstone gems were the stuff of legend—the last known in existence was the one that adorned the Amulet of Kings.

She reached forward and touched the legendary gem gingerly.  “Nerussa,” she asked suddenly.  “Where did you get the moonstone gem?”

Nerussa cringed a bit but didn’t respond.  She simply furrowed her brow and glared before turning back down and laying the last of her supplies out.  She took her time, once again reviewing all the instructions; her eyes moving back and forth between her journal and the materials.

A wave of anxiety suddenly swept over Evangeline.  “Which types of amulets did you forge in Markarth?” she asked.  Before she had to leave, Nerussa had enjoyed a brief tutelage with the Jarl’s blacksmith, learning the basics of metal and jewelry crafting.

“Mostly amulets of the Divines, Zenithar and Julianos,” she replied.

Evangeline’s eyes widened.  “Those are just metal on a chain! Have you ever worked with gems before?”

“I made several jeweled necklaces, yes.”  Nerussa couldn’t believe she was bringing this up though she shouldn’t have been surprised.  It was only a matter of time before the Breton’s ambivalence gave way to anxiety, and she started taking her fears out on everyone else.  Nerussa let out a sharp breath before continuing. “Have I worked with this many gems at once?  No.”  She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips while she waited for Evangeline to respond

“Enough,” exclaimed Xeri as she wandered back toward the forge.  “No one has worked with this many and these types of gems at once.  And even if we could find someone, it wouldn’t mater.  This is our task to complete—or fail.”

Evangeline pushed her hands through her hair and gripped the back of her neck.  After letting out a long breath, she nodded apologetically.  Xeri sidled up beside her; she knew just how much the Breton was hurting.  She went to say something, but Evangeline spoke first.

“Where is our mage?”  She wasn’t in the mood for Xeri’s attempts at consolation, which tended to be more **c** ondemning than comforting.

“I told him to look for more traps.”  She scanned the room briefly and nodded up toward the platform, where Marcurio appeared to be rifling through an ancient Dwarven chest.

They turned back to Nurussa who was melting a gold ingot over one of the hearth’s basins.

When she was done, she moved the pot to the central basin and poured the metal into a mold.  Even Xeri couldn’t conceal her astonishment as she watched the Altmer handle the gold and all the instruments required for the task.  In some ways, the forge—with all its ancient, magical technology—did most of the work, shaping the amulet, and so forth.  But assembling all the components was an exacting task and on this point, Nerussa was meticulous.  She laid the Ayleid stone, now infused with Elspeth’s blood, in the middle of the amulet and then set each gemstone at specific points around it.  Xeri and Evangeline held their breaths as she placed the last one, Auri-El’s moonstone, at the bottom tip of the talisman.  When that was completed she fitted the aetherium shards to the top of the hearth, closed the lid, and pressed the button.

The forge made a distinctive sound as it worked **.**   While she waited, Nerussa held her hands pressed together, touching her fingertips to her lips, as she stared at the lid.  When the noise stopped, she paused and took a deep breath.  Behind her Xeri and Evangeline looked at each other first and then stepped up so that they were on either side of her.  Nerussa had laid her hands on the lid.  With her eyes closed and lips trembling slightly, she appeared to be saying a brief prayer.  After several moments, she shook her head slightly, as if jolting herself to reality, and quickly opened the lid.  The woman gasped as they looked upon the amulet.  It wasn’t an exact replica but it was close enough.  Nerussa picked it up and strung it on a gold chain, never once taking her eyes off it.

“It’s a bit gaudy, don’t you think?”  Xeri interrupted their stunned silence.

“It is,” said Nerussa, smirking slightly.  They stood silently for several more moments until they were interrupted again, this time by Marcurio.

“Is that what you forged?” he asked, as he tried to peer over Nerussa’s shoulder.

“Yes!” she said as she cupped it in her hands, shielding it from sight.  But it was too late; he’d caught a quick glance.

“You know,” he began, “that looks just like—”

Evangeline and Nerussa looked at each other uncomfortably, but before they could respond, Xeri quickly grabbed Marcurio and clapped her hand over his mouth.  “Now you listen,” she said firmly as she brought her hands back down.  “Some fat cat noble in Skingrad is going to pay us a lot of money so he can stick this in some display case.  He’s got guards.  We do not and if word got out that this… _artifact_ is being forged, I don’t need to tell you what sort of danger you would put us in.   We hired you to protect us.  I’d like to think that you would extend the courtesy, even after we part ways.”  Xeri narrowed her eyes at him and he nodded nervously.  “Good,” she said quietly.

They gathered up their supplies and left, not a word was spoken among them as they exited the ruin.  Later that evening, after they bade Marcurio farewell, they made their way to the Vilemyr Inn in Ivarstead—an air of triumph surrounding them.  There were no words, however, simply the clank of tankards and satisfied grins as they toasted their first accomplishment.


	12. In the Meantime I: Something Unexpected this Way Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short, "Meanwhile..."
> 
> [The following contains mild descriptions of romantic sexuality that may not be suitable for individuals under the age of fifteen…or anyone really.]

_Elspeth gasped.  “What is this place?”  She looked around, eyes wide with an almost child-like wonder._

_“They are the hot springs of Eastmarch,” he explained, “and quite possibly the only desirable thing about this hold.”_

_“I thought you said we wouldn’t talk of politics.”  She paused for a moment as she continued to scan the area.  “But, I have to ask…is it okay for us, for you, to be here?”_

_He grinned.  “I’m pretty sure the Stormcloaks have better things to do than to search the hot springs for wandering Jarls.”  Still, he glanced behind him to confirm that his housecarl was in sight.  Irileth was perched atop a fallen tree, keeping a lookout.  And also wearing a chef’s tunic, but for some reason that did not strike him as strange._

_Elspeth didn’t waste any time before removing her clothing.  For a moment, she stood naked in the sun, stretching her arms before lowering herself into the steaming pool and sinking her whole body under the water.  When she came up again, she was beaming as she shook her dripping hair out of her eyes._

_Balgruuf quickly removed his own robe and boots; placed his weapon down and slipped out of his loincloth.  He found a ledge and eased into the pool, letting the hot water relax his tense muscles.  Elspeth, on the other hand, didn’t want to sit still.  She splashed and jumped up and down, enjoying the chilly air on her skin before plunging herself back into the hot water.  Every time she emerged, he marveled at her muscular frame and her firm breasts, her nipples hardened by the frigid air._

_As he leaned back and closed his eyes, he could not recall the last time he felt so content.  Blissful, even._

_Soon he felt the water around him surge a bit and Elspeth’s hands on his knees as she brought herself up to straddle his lap.  “Thank you for bringing me here,” she said quietly._

_He pushed the wet locks of hair out of her eyes.  “You are so very welcome,” he said, though he barely finished the sentence before she pressed her lips to his.  He loved that she was assertive and reveled in the way she gripped him between her bent legs.  She was just as strong as he imagined.  He pulled her forward and groped her backside, her thighs, her hips._

_After several moments, she pulled her head away from his and as he righted himself on the ledge, she drew herself up over his hips—paused for just a moment before taking him inside.  He gasped and groaned and as he clutched her waist, he began to—  
_

Balgruuf woke with a start and sat bolt upright as he tried to recall where he was.  He rubbed his eyes with his fists and let out a loud gasp as he looked around anxiously.  It was dark and he was sitting in something cold and wet.  But he was in his bed, in his quarters.  Elspeth wasn’t there, which distressed him far more than it probably should have.

“Is everything all right my lord?”  Saadia was roused from sleep at his sudden movement.  He could feel her curling her body around his and it made him uncomfortable  “Is there anything I can do?”  Balgruuf struggled against recoiling as she ran her fingertips up his thigh.  Suddenly her touch, which earlier had been astonishing, sating every one of his primal desires, was disconcerting and irritating.

He swallowed against the unease growing in his throat.  “No, my dear,” he said as he clutched her hand and gently pushed it away.  “Go back to sleep.  I just need some air.”  He sat up and quickly put his robe on.  He walked out of his room and left his quarters—exiting onto the balcony.  He stepped down to the far edge and leaned over the rail, letting out a deep breath as he looked over his city.

From the moment Elspeth had left Dragonsreach, he’d been thinking about her constantly.  Not once had he denied his attraction to her; she was adorable and charming—in an irreverent sort of way.  But he’d focused on all his thoughts on being good mentor and how me might make the young Dragonborn’s life easier.  Now he thought back to the dream.  He smiled at how peaceful and perfect it felt.  But when he recalled how sad he was when he woke up and she wasn’t there, his heart sank and he buried his face in his hands.

“Sweet Dibella’s tit, what the fuck am I going to do?”


	13. Your Mind Is Made Up

_Another day, another mountain of bodies.  She climbed, digging her hands and kicking her feet into Elven armor bloodied and scuffed by battle—the once gleaming uniforms of the Aldmeri army piled, stacked like garbage.  She climbed higher and higher.  But she wasn’t alone, not this time.  Her companions had her back.  At the top of the heap, a tall figure in a Thalmor robe was waiting—as he always did.  But now he cowered, silently fearful as Elspeth approached, a glass claymore in her hands.  Oberon.  The weapon of the last Champion of Cyrodill.  The weapon of her ancestor.  There would be no mercy.  She raised the blade and with a steady arc, took the Justiciar’s head clean off.  She picked the faceless head up from the ground and turned to her companions.   Come, she said.  It’s time to gather more tribute._

Well that’s different, she thought as she roused from a heavy sleep and stretched out under the covers of quite possibly the most comfortable bed she’d ever slept in.  Lydia was next to her, curled into a ball and snoring lightly.  It was just after 6AM.  Trygve was gone, most likely hunting or possibly just walking around outside the city gate.  She was wide awake and it would have been prudent to start the day, but she was just so comfortable that she turned over on her side and dozed off again.   Two hours later—though it felt like only 10 minutes—Lydia was shaking her shoulder.

“Time to get up,” she said, smiling.

This time she was groggy.  “No,” she said sleepily.  “I am going to stay here.  I can slay the mighty dragons from bed.”  She retreated under the covers and gripped them tightly to keep Lydia from whipping the blanket away from her.

But her friend simply giggled as she brought Elspeth’s armor and a clean set of woolies to the side of the bed.  “Don’t tell me you’re not famished.”

To say that Elspeth was feeling a bit peckish was an understatement.  “Indeed,” she replied, peering out from under the covers.  “Housecarl, I bid you, bring me eggs and cured meat and porridge and a slightly warmed Honningbrew mead with which I can wash it down.”

Lydia snorted.  “You’re terrible at giving orders.”

“You know,” said Elspeth as she kicked the covers off.  “I’d like to respond that you are terrible taking orders except I know that’s not true.”  She sat up and as she started to dress, her face darkened as her thoughts wandered to the night before and all the things that Potema said about Xeri and power.

“What’s the matter?”  Lydia asked as she organized her satchel.

“Something Potema said has been nagging at me,” she explained.  “She knew about Xeri and my training.”

Lydia flinched.  No matter how many times that Andurs, the elderly priest in Whiterun, explained that the spirits of the dead did not lurk in the corners, scrutinizing the living—that the passage of knowledge between the Mundus and the plans of Aetherius and Oblivion was a more complicated, mystical process, this notion never ceased to unnerve her.

“That was strange enough,” Elspeth continued after a brief pause.  “But it didn’t bother me nearly as much as her comments suggesting that I’ve always wanted power.”  She let out a deep breath and gripped the back of her neck with her hands.  “You know, I’ve entertained the most absurd fantasies of single-handedly destroying the Thalmor.  But I thought they were just fantasies.  I mean…what if it’s not just about dragons?  What if the Psijic Order knows about this?  I mean, it sort of makes sense…Illario was a scholar of Tiber Septim who was also Dragonborn…what if I’m supposed to want and do more.  What if—” She collapsed back onto the bed and covered her eyes with her arms.  Her head was spinning; it was simply too much.

Lydia wanted to remind her to focus on the task at hand, but that was starting to sound so inadequate.  At some point, she would need to start thinking beyond that.   “Well,” she said after a moment, “let’s not think about that on an empty stomach.”  She pulled Elspeth up to her feet and they made their way down to the dining room where Trygve was pushing food around on his plate and looking up at the entrance every couple of seconds.  For once he seemed rather pleased to see the women and smirked as he beckoned them over.

Elspeth sat down and immediately took a thick slice of bread from the plate in front of him and slathered it with honey and butter.  One of the palace servants, Erdi, a lanky Nord woman, brought two plates heaped with eggs and cured meat and two mugs of hot tea.  When she refilled Trygve’s mug, he smiled warmly and she touched his shoulder affectionately as she walked away, once again displaying the intimate familiarity that characterized so many of his interactions in Solitude.  Watching him smile after Erdi made him look so much more human and Elspeth cursed herself for finding that strange.

When he turned back to the table, however, his countenance had resumed its typical seriousness.  “Are we leaving today?” he asked.

“I think we should,” said Elspeth.  For a moment, she was tempted to ask why he was in such a rush to leave, when so many seemed happy to have him there.  But she thought better of it as she recalled the awkward encounter with the Altmer the day before.  “I want to go to the college and see if we can’t find out more about how the dragons are being resurrected.”

Lydia smiled and nodded enthusiastically, while Trygve looked reluctant though he did not object.  He returned to his tea and continued to glance up occasionally at the room’s entrance, but breakfast was mostly quiet with an occasional guard or guest passing through.  Erdi refilled their mugs with tea and goblets with water and smiled when Elspeth took a second and then a third plate of food.  Trygve and Lydia were talking about supplies, and whether they should bother with the shops in town if Ma’dran’s caravan was just outside the walls, when Falk Firebeard strode into the dining room.

“Dragonborn!” he exclaimed as he sat next to her.  “I trust you slept well and are finding everything to your liking?”  As Elspeth swallowed and nodded, he continued.  “Jarl Elisif is eager to make your acquaintance as Dragonborn.  Also, I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a meeting with General Tullius.  He is expecting you at the castle in an hour.  And it will just be the general and perhaps a couple of officers.  No Thalmor.  There aren’t any justiciars or emissaries here today.”

Elspeth looked at Falk sharply and then to Lydia, who was shaking her head.  She looked back at the steward and took a deep breath.  “I really do not wish to involve myself in the Legion,” she said slowly.

“I understand you had an unfortunate interaction with the Legion,” he said.  “But I think you will find it prudent to introduce yourself.  And do not worry about the Thalmor.  Tullius has little if any contact with them.”

“No.”  Her tone was insistent, although with his reassurance regarding the Thalmor, Elspeth had to come up with a better reason for her resistance to meeting with the general apart from simply not wanting to.  “What does the General want with me anyway?”

“Personally, I don’t believe that Tullius cares at all about the return of the Dragonborn.  Or the dragons for that matter,” Falk explained, his tone betraying some annoyance on this last point.  “His second in command, Legate Rikke, is a Nord who will be most eager to meet you, I am sure.  And the men and women under his command will likely be curious about the Dragonborn.  Meeting with the general will do much to assuage their curiosity and any fears they might be harboring about the dragons, which will strengthen Legion morale.”

“I’m not convinced that Elspeth should be concerning herself with _Legion morale_ ,” Lydia protested.

“No, I suppose not,” Falk replied.  “Still, I think it would behoove you to—”

“Elsepth,” Trygve interrupted, “you need to meet with the General.”

“But why?” Elspeth demanded as Lydia scowled at him harshly.

“Listen to me,” he said.  “I know what they are capable of.  You need to meet with the General, you need to firmly and assertively state your intention to remain neutral with respect to the war, and most important….” He paused for a moment and shifted so that his face was squared with hers.  “You need to demand that Tullius issues an order protecting you and your companions from future interrogation.  He’s not just a general, he’s the military governor of Skyrim and he has that authority.”

Trygve looked back up at Falk who was nodding slowly in agreement.  “I’ll have the legion’s administrator draw up the papers.”  Elspeth paused for a moment, as if trying to form an argument, but eventually appeared to concede.  At that point, they expected Falk to leave, but instead he sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.  “Elspeth, Lydia tells me that you were arrested near the Morrowind border, but that you were coming from Cyrodiil.”

Elspeth nodded, not entirely certain why he was suddenly curious about how she entered Skyrim.  Before she could ask, however, he continued.  “You are from Bruma, but spent your the first half of your life in a refugee camp in Morrowind.”  As he spoke, his tone raised slightly, as if he were suspicious of something.

“That is correct,” she said, eyeing him curiously.  She wasn’t certain why any of this was remarkable.  “So…?”

“Well, most Cyrodiil citizens who fled to the borders were back within a year,” he explained.  “But your family stayed for over a decade.”

Lydia stiffened and looked at Trygve, who was looking at Elspeth intently, as if just by staring he could will her to spin a believable, yet blatantly untrue, yarn.  The Dragonborn was a good at a lot of things, but lying wasn’t one of them.

Thankfully, Xeri had prepared her for such questioning.  “True,” she replied.  “Our camp abutted a farming village that had lost many residents to an illness and readily accepted the assistance of my parents and the others in their company, which including a Dunmer warrior woman.  The camp was, more or less, incorporated into the village and they decided to stay.”

“Very interesting,” said Falk quietly.

“No, it was quite boring actually,” she said.

Falk raised his eyebrows at her and shifted forward as if he had another question.  However, after a brief pause he said he would see them in Castle Dour presently and then bade them farewell.

“How did he know so much about me?”  Elspeth looked at Lydia.  Her tone was firm, though not accusatory or harsh.

“He just…”  Lydia paused and shook her head in frustration.  “He just has a way of getting people to divulge information.”  It was a distinct gift the steward had, one he was known throughout the holds for.  Even Balgruuf said as much.

“It’s a rare talent,” said Trygve.  “One found primarily in courtesans and those who run the bordellos.  Are now, Lydia, are you so certain that Firebeard doesn’t run the local brothel?”  As he teasingly reminded Lydia of one of their previous quarrels, Trygve appeared almost cheerful, but a flurry of activity at the entrance of the dining room disrupted his demeanor.  His face darkened and then turned to a distinct frown as Thanes Bryling and Erikur, as well as Sybille Stentor and Melaran emerged for their morning meal.

“Do you have a lot of experience with courtesans?”  Lydia asked sarcastically.

Trygve took a long swallow from his water goblet before setting it solidly on the table.  “And what if I have, Lydia?  You don’t strike me as someone who would begrudge someone the occasional casual intimacy or judge those who provide them.”  His stern look made Lydia somewhat uncomfortable.”

“I don’t,” she exclaimed defensively.  “You just seem more familiar with courtesan… _culture_ than I expected.”  Elspeth laughed.  It was almost comforting to have them bickering again.

“Hmm,” Trygve groaned.  “I definitely see the appeal.  It’s far less complicated than most relationships, don’t you think?”  The palace courtiers were seated a table over, chatting, their dishes clinking and clattering on the table.  It was clear Trygve was struggling to keep his unease at bay.

“But it’s all just a lie,” said Lydia.  “I mean…I guess I can see the appeal but…”  She drew her arms across her chest.  She was trapped between wanting to be broad minded and kind, but also feeling a certain discomfort with the idea that a member of Elisif’s court was running the local brothel.

“Well, at least when a courtesan gives a false name, you know it’s false.”  He swallowed the last of his water and looked at Elspeth as he set his goblet down.  “Isn’t that right Elspeth?”  He stood and tossed his napkin on the table.  “I’ll meet you at the castle.”   He left in a hurry, leaving the woman looking agape after him.  His comment stung, though Elspeth tried not to let it show.

“He didn’t mean to say that,” said Lydia.

“Trygve doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.”  Elspeth retorted.  She leaned back and looked over to the sorcerer who seemed to be the cause of Trygve’s angst.  “What is it about that elf?” she asked quietly, before shaking her head and gesturing for them to leave.

They met Jarl Elisif and her housecarl, Bolgeir Bearclaw in the throne room and the group walked together to the castle.  Bolgeir was a burly Nord, tough in his appearance but quiet.  The Jarl was pleasant enough, but without Falk nearby, she was distant, her expression almost vacant.  As she walked from the palace to the castle, she garnered many pleasant looks but her stride lacked authority and confidence, lending even more credence to the notion that it was Falk Firebeard running the city.

In Castle Dour, they gathered in a small room.  General Tullius was standing with Falk Firebeard and a tall and hardened Nord woman whom Elspeth assumed to be Legate Rikke.  Several other legion soldiers were gathered around the room.  One of them looked familiar.  Elspeth narrowed her eyes in his direction and tried to recall where she had seen him.  Was it Svenn, the one who had healed her on the way from Riverwood to Whiterun? He looked over and when he caught her gaze, it was apparent that he also recognized her.

“General Tullius, Legate Rikke,” Falk Firebeard began, “Allow me the pleasure of introducing to you the Dragonborn.  She is also a student at the College of Winterhold and Thane of Whiterun, where she is known as Elspeth.  And this—“

But before Falk could continue with his introductions, they were interrupted by the sound of a soldier letting out a strangled gasp before his knees buckled and he collapsed on the floor.

“Hadvar!” exclaimed the Legate.  “Are you all right?”

Hadvar.  That was the soldier with the list, the one who led her back to Ralof in Helgen.  She grinned inwardly as she turned to look at the anxious soldier scrambling to get back on to his feet.

“I am…” he gasped.  “I’m just….” But every time he tried to look up and over at Elspeth, he grew pale.

“I think Hadvar is just glad to see that I’m alive,” said Elspeth.  “Aren’t you?”

“Do you two know each other?” asked Legate Rikke.

Elspeth pursed her lips and looked intently at him.  Try as she might, she couldn’t help but enjoy his discomfort.  Finally, after several deep breaths, Hadvar looked at Tullius.  “Sir, Elspeth was with us at Helgen.”

This seemed to pique the General’s interest.  “Is that so?”  He looked at Elspeth sternly.  “And what were you doing at Helgen?”

“I was about to have my head chopped off,” she said dryly.

The entire room seemed to gasp at once and then grew quiet though the General remained unfazed.  “Yes,” he said.  “I think I remember you.  Why did we arrest you?”

“I wish I knew,” Elspeth frowned.

The General looked uneasy, but just for a moment.  “Well,” he said.  “I’m sure it was all just a misunderstanding.  On behalf of the Imperial Legion, please accept my apologies.”

“Your apologies?”  Trygve interjected.  “Apologies?  You arrested an innocent woman, took all her money, her armor, and weapons you think a simple apology will suffice?”  Elspeth raised her eyes and looked at Lydia, who was grinning and staring at Trygve.

“Of course the Legion will compensate the Dragonborn!”  Jarl Elisif’s tone was somehow both adamant and uncertain.   “Won’t they, General!”

General Tullius grunted somewhat uncomfortably as he looked back at Elspeth and her compations.  “Yes,” he said.  “Of course, the Legion will reimburse her.  And I will approve the order that Falk Firebeard has had drawn up.”  He scowled and let out a deep breath before directly at Trygve.  “And who might you be?” he asked.

“My name is Trygve Wartooth.  I am a companion to the Dragonborn and also Thane of the Rift.”

At this revelation, a slight murmur was heard around the room.  “Wartooth?” asked Tullius.  “As in Henrik Wartooth?”

“Yes,” said Trygve.  “Henrik was my brother.”  Now Elspeth and Lydia were looking at Trygve with some confusion.  They didn’t know he had a brother.

“How interesting,” said the General.  “Your brother was a good soldier.  Between the Stormcloaks and the Dragon, Helgen was a nightmare.  I have no doubt your brother fought bravely to the end.”

“Now General, we both know that’s not true.”  The entire room became uncomfortably quiet as the General and Trygve just sort of stared at each other.  Finally, after several moments Trygve looked back toward Falk and the Legate.  “If there is no other business, I don’t think we need to take up any more of your time.  We will take the signed order as well as Elspeth’s compensation and be on our way.”

There was a flurry of activity as papers were signed and coin was counted.  Elspeth could barely comprehend what was happening, however.  _Trygve had a brother in the Imperial Legion.  Trygve’s brother died at Helgen. Why didn’t she know that?_

When they were outside, Elspeth grabbed Trygve’s arm and spun him around.  “Why didn’t you tell us your brother died at Helgen?”

“Excuse me,” he said.  “Why would I?  Apart from some curiosity about where I spent a recent evening, neither one of you have ever shown _any_ interest in my personal life!”

“Surely Nerussa knew! Why didn’t it come up when I told her about Helgen?  Why didn’t you say anything then?”

“Elspeth, Nerussa forgot about everyone else in Nirn that day.”  When he saw how distressed she looked, however, his face softened.  “I wasn’t keeping it from you.  And honestly, I didn’t pay all that much attention to what you said to Nerussa.”  He sighed and looked around.  “Look, let’s just get out of the city. I’m going to the fletcher to stock up on arrows.  I’ll meet you at the caravan outside the gate.  You can ask me all about my personal history on the way to Winterhold.”

Lydia and Elspeth just watched him as he walked out of the castle courtyard.  Lydia thought for a moment and then slapped her forehead.  “I should have known,” she said.  “Toki went to the Rift right after you arrived in Whiterun because his cousin was killed.  I didn’t even make the connection.”  She shook her head at her thoughtlessness.  “Are you okay?” she asked Elspeth, whose looked like she was going to be sick at any moment.

“I killed so many legion soldiers,” she said quietly.  “I blew up a room full of them.  Oh gods….” She buried her face in her hands.

“Oh Elspeth, I’m sorry,” said Lydia.  She couldn’t even begin to imagine the guilt Elspeth was feeling.

“I have to tell him.”  She started to walk briskly toward the fletcher’s shop.

“Wait, what?”  Lydia stepped up and grabbed her friend’s elbow.  “No!” she said firmly as she yanked her back.  “You can’t.  Elspeth you cannot tell him.”

“I have to!”

“No, Elspeth don’t.  I am begging you,” Lydia was pleading.  “We can’t lose him.”

“Why not?”  Elspeth was shocked as to why Lydia, who was constantly irritated with Trygve, cared so much about keeping him around.

Lydia took a deep breath and thought carefully about what she was going to say.  As much as she adored her friend, Elspeth’s future was so very bleak.  And the thought of being the only one to help shoulder the Dragonborn’s burdens filled her with unspeakable dread.  “Elspeth, I can’t handle this.”

“There are other healers.  Other warriors.  We could—”

Elspeth stopped as Lydia shook her head violently.  “Elspeth, please,” she said.  “He’s a masterful healer and alchemist.  He hits everything with that fucking bow.  He knows strategy.  And he made a promise, not to protect the Dragonborn but to protect you.  He knows about your mother.”  Lydia sucked in a sharp breath and swallowed.  “Gods, I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but…Elspeth, we…dammit, _I_ need him.  Promise me you won’t tell him.”

As she said this, her voice grew so desperate that it wrenched Elspeth’s heart.  “Okay,” she said softly.  “I won’t say anything.”

“Thank you,” she said.  Then she grinned a bit.  “Why don’t we go spend some of that Legion coin?”

“Oh, I intend to,” said Elspeth.  “After the caravans, we’re hitting the stables.  It’s time that Ysmir, Dragon of the North, mounted her own steed!”


	14. Counting Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the gods (well, saints) get political and I regurgitate all my favorite non-lore from the Imperial Library. Also, the worst easter egg ever.

_In your tales you have many names for her: Al-Esh, given to her in awe, that when translated sounds like a redundancy, “the high high,” from which come the more familiar corruptions: Aleshut, Esha, Alessia. You knew her as Paravant, given to her when crowned, “first of its kind,” by which the gods meant a mortal worthy of the majesty that is killing-questing-healing.”_

~Morihaus from _The Adabal-a_

“You know how much I love Skyrim, really and truly,” said Xeri, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “but shouldn’t this ritual take place in Imperial City where—at least, where the statue of St. Alessia once stood?”  She frowned and pulled her cloak tightly as she looked around the snow-covered clearing.

“One might think so,” said Nerussa, barely looking at Xeri as she set out supplies for the summoning ritual.  “The ritual works anywhere—well, almost anywhere.  But we aren’t actually summoning St. Alessia.”

“Then who are we summoning?” asked Xeri.

“Aouregan, the last priestess of the Alessian Order and follower of the prophet Maruk.  And Øyvind, one of the last of the ancient Nord tribal leaders, dedicated to the old hero-god of the Cyro-Nordics, Morihaus, who was a consort of Alessia,” Nerussa explained.  “Together they are said to represent the combined spiritual and political influence of St. Alessia, the alliances she forged, and they are the initiates and guardians of the sacred trials.”

Xeri simply nodded.  Try as she might, she could not help but be impressed.  She had always respected Nerussa as a capable administrator and steward, but now she was utterly floored by the sheer amount of knowledge and the various skills the Altmer had acquired over the years—all while running from the Thalmor.

When Nerussa was ready, she beckoned them over.  Evangeline, who had been sitting, on a tree stump on the edge of the clearing, looked up and paused before she got to her feet.  She ambled over slowly and as she stood before the two elven women, her face darkened.  For Evangeline, the excitement of crafting the amulet had slowly worn off as they made their way through the Rift, giving way to a profound feeling of despair.  Xeri had sensed her dread, but for the most part ignored it, believing that the she would come to her senses and recognize the importance of the task and its relevance to her visions.

“What’s wrong?” asked Nerussa.

“We need to talk about this,” she said nervously.  “We just can’t do this without some sense of why.  What do we really think is going to happen in the end?  Are we really trying to revive the Septim dynasty?  Because as wonderful as that may sound in theory, it’s actually not going to go over well in reality.  And as I said before, simply revealing the existence of a Septim doesn’t automatically challenge the Concordat.”  Evangeline’s voiced raised as she spoke and her tone was firm, almost angry.

“Evangeline, if you are worried about the Thalmor, we can utilize your dissidents and—“

“Not just the Thalmor!” she exclaimed.  “It’s not going to go over well anywhere.  Maybe in Skyrim and Cyrodiil.  But the validity of the trials isn’t going to be accepted everywhere.  It’s not going to automatically reunite the Empire, not spiritually and certainly not politically.”

“I suppose not,” said Nerussa.  “All of this will depend largely on what Elspeth chooses to do.  She will have to decide.  Will she go forth and usurp the throne from Mede?”

“I doubt it,” Xeri interjected.  Her tone was somewhat cynical, causing Nerussa to glower at her before she continued.

“Or will she pick up with the dissidents and the Psijics and forge other alliances to confront the Thalmor menace?”

Xeri smirked at this and opened her mouth to say something about how she thought Elspeth’s strengths as a leader would emerge, but then she thought better of it.  This wasn’t really about Elspeth; it was about Evangeline.   “You’re scared,” Xeri said finally.  “I understand…sort of.  But I can feel your ambivalence sera.  I believe…” she paused, thinking very carefully about what she was going to say next.  “I believe, in the end, our motivations and intentions matter very little.  The trials and the amulet are little more than a catalyst.”

Nerussa nodded, pleased and somewhat surprised at Xeri’s thoughtfulness.  She stepped toward Evangeline and held her hands.  “And if you cannot do this Evangeline, now is the time to leave.  I will be disappointed, but I need you to be fully committed and accepting of whatever outcome.”

Evangeline paused for a moment.  Weighed down by dread, ambivalence, and longing, her heart ached.  She was a careful person, a planner, but she wasn’t one to shy away from taking risks.  But never before had so much been at stake.  Elspeth, the dissidents, her companions—in her mind she saw both the potential for glorious triumph and devastating loss.  And in all likelihood, there would be both.  A stubborn realist, she had taught her students that there was no success without sacrifice.  Now here she was, being tested by her own admonition.  She couldn’t turn back; how could she face her students, the dissidents, even Quaranir and his colleagues knowing about all this?  “Very well,” she said quietly.  “I will come.”

“Thank you,” said Nerussa. “There is something else I want to ask you.  I was going to wait but I think it’s a appropriate now.”  She stopped and looked around—somewhat uncomfortably—for a moment before she continued.  “Please know that I hate to ask but…is there any chance that Bedyn sired another child?”  She took a deep breath and bit her lip as she anticipated the offense that Evangeline would take to such a query.

Surprisingly, Evangeline simply cocked her head, her demeanor as calm as if it had been any other mundane query.  “I don’t believe so,” she said after several moments.  “None of the lovers he took in the village bore him any children.  Xeri, do you know of any?”

“It’s highly unlikely,” she replied.  “And if he had known, you would have known too.  Bedyn wouldn’t have abandoned a child.”

The casualness with which both Xeri and Evangeline spoke of these past encounters was unsettling to Nerussa, though she said nothing.  As a young couple, Bedyn and Evangeline had enchanted their neighbors and friends in Chorrol.  Whatever happened later should be of no concern she supposed.  They’d endured; they brought Elspeth into the world.  Isn’t that all that mattered?

She placed the amulet on a tiny makeshift alter she’d fashioned from several ingots and outlined a circle just big enough for the three of them using a mixture of fire, frost, and void salts.  After they all grasped each other’s hands, Xeri and Evangeline listened as Nerussa spoke the incantation that would summon Alessia’s guardians.  The Altmer spoke slowly and deliberately, but to their ears the ancient Nedic words were little more than gibberish.  When she finished, there was a brief pause and then a distinct change in the atmosphere as the air around them compressed and grew thick.

When they opened their eyes—or, to be more precise, when their eyes were allowed to open again, it was pitch black.  They hung suspended, not in air, not anywhere.  It was the Void and for a moment, in the absence of everything, there was no sound, no touch, no sight, no smell.  Then in the after what could have been an eternity—for there was no way to know—their perception began to return and a small space, lit dimly with a dull blue glow, opened and two figures, a lithe Breton with golden hair and pale skin, dressed in the ancient robes of the Alessian order and a large Nord warrior, burly and dressed in ancient armor, stepped forward.

Aouregan spoke first.  “Nerussa the wanderer, daughter of Elanin and Telindil of Dusk, I bid you welcome.  We’ve been waiting a long time for this meeting.  I see you’ve brought companions.”  The ancient priestess spoke with a clear, yet ethereal tone that did not waver once.  Nerussa bowed her head in reverence.  The atmosphere Void did not unnerve her at all.  Among the preparations she had made for this were years spent meditating in anticipation.

“Xeri Tharys, the warrior,” the priestess continued, “granddaughter of Balam, the revered wise woman of Narsis.  And also, Evangeline Sigeweald the mage, daughter of Aurelie and Pierrick of Cheydinhal, mother of Elspeth, descendent of Vivienne Sigeweald, the daughter of Martin Septim and Maeve Sigeweald.”

Xeri and Evangeline nodded slowly as they listened to the priestess and became oriented to the Void space.  Evangeline, a master level conjuration mage, had expected something more familiar, something akin to the planes of Oblivion she saw in her mind as she summoned bound and unbound dremoras over the years.  Xeri, on the other hand, was quite comfortable.  In the Void, sensation was limited and perception narrowed so that Xeri, for the first time in her life, only had to deal with her own consciousness.

“Bring me the Chim-el Adabal.”  At Aouregan’s command, the old Nordic warrior Øyvind stepped forward and directed the amulet into Aouregan’s open palm.  “Indeed, this is an adequate replication of the artifact,” she said as she inspected it carefully.  “Its authenticity will be a matter of debate of course.  But all the elements are present and its ability to wield the aspects of the Divines as they are granted is without question.”  She paused for a moment as she looked at the three women before her.  “Øyvind, what is your opinion on the initiation of these trials?”

Even in his ethereal form Øyvind was a behemoth and he towered over them.  “The Mer come to us with clarity of spirit.  The Dunmer is a warrior and to her I would assign Alessia’s aspect of Killing.  To the Altmer, a scholar of sorts, I would assign the aspect of Questing.”

“And what of the Breton?”

“The mage harbors deep ambivalence and fear.  And while there is some selfishness to her motives, she lacks neither integrity nor conviction.  I would assign her Alessia’s aspect of Healing.”

It was explained that the Trials of St. Alessia were organized around these aspects.  Nine trials, the first of which was, of course, the quest to bring forth the Chim-el Adabal.  Though each woman was assigned an individual aspect, the features of the forthcoming trials and how each woman’s strength’s would be utilized would be up to the gods to decide.

“Øyvind will now indicate the conditions by which you will be bound as you embark upon the trials.”

As he proclaimed the conditions, Øyvind’s voice echoed and swirled and reverberated in their heads, as if the tenets of the trials were being written into the fabric of their very being.   “The three of you are bound together for the duration of the Trials.  Failure to complete the Trials, for any reason, will leave all of you in the service of the Divines for eternity.  Is this clear?”

The women nodded and Øyvind spoke again.  “None of you are to have any contact with Elspeth or her companions during the Trials unless specifically instructed to during the Trials.  To do so will forfeit the trials.”

At this, Xeri and Nerussa looked over at Evie, but her face was impossible to read.  And in the Void space, Xeri’s empath abilities were useless.

So they swore their oaths and felt the power of their assigned aspects infuse their souls.  The priestess and the warrior bade them farewell and sent them back to Mundus.

Øyvind turned to his companion.  “Others have sought to initiate the trials and you’ve always turned them away.  Why have you allowed this?”

“It was the Chim-el Adabal, of course,” she replied, her tone indicating that it should have been obvious.

“But that wasn’t the Chim-el Adabal.  It will not hold Alessia’s soul; it will not offer protection.  It is not an artifact; it is merely a symbol of that artifact.”

“I suppose you are correct,” she conceded.

“The return of the Alduin has awakened the dragonborn’s soul and stirred the power in her blood.  Is that not enough? Who are we to involve ourselves in the _politics_ of Nirn?”

“But Alessia was a politician before she was a saint.” Aouregan sighed. “Soon there will be a reckoning between Men and those Mer who would see them all enslaved again.”  And there are fringe elements in the Thalmor who would do so much more than that to reclaim what they believe to be their birthright.” She brought her palms, pressed together to her mouth and paused for a moment before continuing.  “The apotheosis of Talos bound him to Lorkhan.  But to preserve the balance that Alessia fought for on Nirn, we also need a living Septim, if not on the Ruby throne then at least known to all of Tamriel.  And for these reasons, she would see this done.”

“And Elspeth, she is the only one who can do this?”

“No,” said Aouregan raising her eyes to the Void above.  “There is another.”

————

A/N: I really feel like I should apologize for that Easter egg, but I’m not sorry.  Okay, well maybe a little.  Sorry.


	15. Birdie in the Hand

“Henrik was my half brother actually.  His mother was an Imperial woman my father knew in Cyrodiil.  He went to visit her on one of his yearly trips and there was his baby.  This was before the war.  Then, when she died, my father brought him back to Skyrim.  Then he met my mother and they had me.”  Trygve stopped his horse and scanned the area.  He was leading them off-road and trying to get his bearings.

“We never got along as children. He was an angry kid and he hated my mother,” he continued as he gestured for them to move forward.  “Things were a little better when we were older and had our own separate lives.  Then we had a huge argument about a month before he died.  We weren’t speaking.”  His voice lowered a bit, but his countenance remained dispassionate.  “We were just different people, I guess.  He was very duty driven and rule bound and—”

“Trygve!” Lydia interjected.  “You are one of the most duty driven individuals I know.  And rules?  I don’t know anyone quite as formal as you are.”

“No, I suppose you are correct.  Henrik was a soldier through and through—a slave to authority if you will. I guess the main difference is that he does what he’s told and I do what’s right.” Trygve grinned and laughed when Lydia rolled her eyes at this last point.  “That’s what I enjoy about being Thane; I’m entrusted to do what’s best for the hold.  As for the formalities…that was my mother’s doing and those habits are hard to break.”  He looked back at Elspeth.  “And not all of us are cute enough to get away with such informal social graces.”  He winked and he and Lydia chuckled.

Elspeth scowled when they looked away from her.  She was ambivalent about their newly found friendship as it only seemed to magnify the guilt she felt when she thought about Trygve’s brother and how he may have died by her or Ralof’s hand.

The journey from Solitude was difficult; the weather was miserable and there were sabre cats, a frost trolls, and, just outside of Dawnstar, a dragon.  When they weren’t fighting, they were recovering and Lydia’s warning that they needed Trygve was proven again and again.

Killing the dragon netted them a nice bounty in Dawnstar and Skald, the ornery old Jarl, offered Elspeth a Thanage on the condition that she spend some time in the hold helping out his citizens.  She politely declined.  A second Thanage seemed like entirely too much work, though Trygve commented that there wasn’t much to do in Dawnstar other than mine and chop wood and run errands.

Following this, the next leg of the journey was calmer and that’s when Lydia took it upon herself to ask about Trygve’s life.  They learned that he was born and raised in the Rift.  He took after his mother, also a healer.  Elspeth noticed that apart from his brother and parents, Trygve didn’t mention any other relationships.  And as he and Lydia laughed and exchanged stories of their respective childhoods, Elspeth tried to remember everything Xeri had taught her about suppressing her feelings and fought against the ache in her chest.  Unfortunately, guilt was one emotion she was never any good at swallowing.

They reached Winterhold around mid afternoon.  Trygve looked warily up at the college, but declined Elspeth’s offer to stay at the inn for some respite from his hunter-healer-dragonborn-helper duties.

“What can I say Ysmir,” he said.  “You’re growing on me.  I might overcome my distrust of mages after all.”  He chuckled as he took the reigns of their horses.  “Though I have to ask….”  He paused for a moment and furrowed his brow, as if trying to decide how best to phrase his concern.  “Are all the mages here empathic?”  He frowned and paused.  The question seemed difficult for him, though he continued.  “You know, like your mentor was?  Should I remain guarded and unemotional?”

“Aren’t you always?” teased Lydia.

For a moment, Elspeth wondered if there was a specific reason he was concerned.  Despite the way that Xeri had exploited her ability to manipulate her students and compel them to control their emotions, she learned from Runa and then later from other mer at the University that most individuals with the heightened empathy ability ignored it.  Unless there was an explicit reason—sometimes it aided certain illusion spells—there was little to gain from feeling emotions that were not one’s own and that it was generally more trouble than it was worth.

“I wouldn’t worry about anyone here,” she said.  “The mages are all scholarly types, more concerned with reading and casting than with anything involving people.  Ancano’s the one you want to stay guarded around.”

As the winds picked up, they hurried across Winterhold.  Tolfdir was guarding the entrance and he was quite pleased to see them and meet their new companion.

“Greetings,” said Tolfdir after admiring the ward that Trygve cast.  “Our master restoration instructor, Collette Marence, will be most pleased to meet you.”  He chuckled lightly before turning to lead the group over the bridge.  In the courtyard, he gestured to the Hall of Attainment.  “There is a room available on the second floor,” he said.  “I’ll get your key.”

Trygve furrowed his brow lightly and shook his head after Tolfdir left.  “I was not expecting such a kindly old man.”

“What exactly were you expecting?” asked Lydia.

“Someone a bit more…ah…disconcerting,” he replied.

“Don’t be disappointed,” Elspeth replied.  “You still haven’t met Phinis.”

She grinned as they made their way inside and up to the dining room, where they could hear lively chatter and as they approached, a familiar sound.

“There is no such thing as death by cunnilingus,” Nirya’s harsh voice carried throughout the room and out to the hallway.  “You’re just a lazy lover J’zargo.”

“J’zargo is many things, but a lazy lover is not one of them.  It is too bad Nirya will never know this for herself,” J’zargo retorted as he turned to see the group in the entrance to the dining room. “My Lydia is home!” he exclaimed, with a level of enthusiasm usually reserved for small things to help make him a more powerful mage.

“Hey!” Brelyna scowled as J’zargo grabbed the tankard of mead that she had just poured for herself and offered it to his favorite housecarl.

Lydia was mortified as J’zargo thrust the cup into her hands.  Her attempt to return the drink to Brelyna, however, was unsuccessful as the Dunmer was suddenly distracted by something.

“Who is this?” she asked, smiling sweetly and extending her hand toward Trygve.

“I’m Trygve Wartooth,” he said and paused as he took Brelyna’s hand.  Given the conversation that preceded their arrival, he supposed that there was no need for his usual formal introduction.

“I’m Brelyna,” she said, her voice slightly higher and more playful than usual.  “Let me pour you some mead.”  She stepped back and nearly crashed into Nirya who was holding out a full tankard to Trygve who by now was looking somewhat flustered, though he readily accepted the drink and offered Nirya a polite nod of thanks.

“Oh for the love of Talos,” murmured Elspeth.  She scanned the room for Lydia, whom she found sitting at the large table with J’zargo.   Brelyna was in the cooking area putting together a huge plate of food, for Trygve presumably.  And Nirya was leading the somewhat apprehensive Nord to a small table in the corner.  Elspeth sighed as a sudden wave of heartsickness came over her.  She left the dining room and after adjusting her satchel, made her way down the hallway, eager to crawl into bed.

“Need a little help with that bag?”  A familiar voice echoed through the hallway.

“Onmund?” Elspeth spun around and much to her surprise and delight, Onmund was standing there.  Forgetting all the bad feelings and awkwardness of their last reunion, Elspeth hurried over and threw herself into his arms.  “What are you doing here?”

He kissed her first and then smoothed her hair down, taking his time, almost as if he didn’t want to answer.  “I needed to get out of Whiterun for a little while,” he said finally, trying—and failing—to hide the unease in his voice.

“Because of me?” she asked, cringing a bit at the memory of the way she’d treated him their last night together.

“No,” he whispered.  “I just needed a break.”  He had no intention of telling her what Idolaf said.  To distract her, he nuzzled her ear and kissed her neck until she giggled.  “Come on,” he said.  “Let’s go to bed.”

*****

The next morning, Lydia and Elspeth met with Urag and Phinis Gestor in the Arcaneum.  After a vivid description of their recent dragon battles and the resurrection of the dragon outside Kynsegrove, the librarian and master conjuration instructor began piling books on the table.  Phinis seemed especially eager to find out more about this resurrection.  Bringing a creature back, not simply as a thrall or shade but fully to life was outside even his level of skill and expertise.

“And what is the Dragonborn doing while you take care of all his research?” asked Urag.  Though he rarely left the orb, with Ancano still lingering around the college, Trygve once again took up the dragonborn title.

As if on cue, heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs and Trygve ambled in.  He offered a courteous nod to the group before sitting down and taking a book from the pile in front of him.

“Late night?” asked Lydia teasingly, before Trygve could ask about the research.

“No,” he said.  “Long breakfast.  I had two huge plates of food waiting for me.”  He cleared his throat and patted his belly.

“And who is the better cook?”  Lydia snickered.

“Neither is particularly remarkable,” he replied.  “My heart goes to the one who can roast the best leg of lamb.”

Lydia laughed and closed the book she was paging through.  “If it pleases my Thane, I would like to visit the Jarl.   Let him know about the Dragonborn and see how things are in the hold.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” protested Trygve, returning to his more serious demeanor.  “You’re a housecarl and your responsibility is—“

“Everything will be fine,” Lydia said, pursing her lips in exasperation.  “I don’t need to be reminded of my duty, Trygve.”

It was like a switch with these two.   For reasons, she could not (or would not) admit, Elspeth found their ongoing joking and Trygve’s apparent popularity irritating.  There was, of course, the ever-present guilt she couldn’t shake, but there was something else.  She was beginning to feel excluded, though she quickly quashed the sadnessthis inspired.  In any case, having them return to their normal bickering was somewhat refreshing.

“Lydia is the College’s ambassador to the Jarl,” Elspeth said.  “And we need to maintain diplomatic relations in these troubling times.  Surely, you can see the strategic advantage there.”  This was intended to be a joke, though it was actually somewhat true.  She gave Trygve a knowing look, but he simply frowned and shook his head before bidding Lydia farewell and turning his attention to Phinis and Urag who had become engaged in an argument over source material and the nature of conjuration magic.

“Certainly, brother Alexandre Simon’s account of Alduin and Akatosh is thorough in its research.  But he was a high priest of Akatosh in Wayrest and his prejudice against the Nords and bias toward the elves is plain.”  Urag was rubbing his forehead and paging through another book.

“That doesn’t make everything he says useless,” protested Phinis.  “I mean, look at all the details he includes on the stories about Alduin from the Nords—“

“You mean, like this guy?”  Urag picked up a tattered book and began reading, “And so I, Thromgar Iron-Head do firmly say, with the utmost connvicshun, that Alduin is real, and he ent Akatosh!”

He let out a very light chuckled as he finished, but Trygve was not amused.  “Need I remind you,” he said angrily, “that two of the authoritative texts written on the Dragons were written by a Nord!”  He glowered at the old Orc as he gestured toward several books in front of him.

Urag scorned, but then his face softened a bit.  He was not as prejudiced as his mockery made him sound but he had forgotten that Trygve was probably not used to the facetious and often pretentious way in which mage scholars argued amongst themselves.  “I mean no disrespect of course,” he said apologetically, to which Trygve responded with a reluctant nod.

“Anyway,” Phinis interjected, eager to get back to the matter at hand.  “Note this in Brother Alexander’s book.  He placed the book flat on the table and pointed to a passage: “…and some accounts even have him devouring the souls of the dead to maintain his own power.”

He folded his hands on the table in front of him and looked across at the others.

“I’ve heard that before,” said Trygve.  “But I don’t understand….”  His voice trailed off.

“The soul is…well, it’s sort of the arbiter of conjuration magic,” he explained.  “Conjuration is temporary—even the strongest spells don’t last more than a day.  The soul acts as a kind of anchor and it’s the reason reanimation spells can’t bring someone, or something, back to life.   It’s not well understood, even by conjurers more skilled than I am.  Perhaps a master of mysticism, someone in the Psijic Order would know.”  He looked over toward Elspeth who sat up, avoiding his gaze as she looked intently over the open books and papers strewn about.

“So, Alduin was the dragon we saw?” Trygve asked uneasily.  “He devours souls of the dead and uses them to bring dragons back to life.”  He rubbed his hand over his jaw as he processed everything: Alduin, conjuration.  Of all the schools of magic, this was the one he found most unsettling.  He knew it wasn’t all necromancy, but he found even the most basic elements of conjuration—all this talk of souls—troubling.

“The souls give him the power he needs,” interjected Elspeth.  “Like the way that soul gems can enchant a weapon or armor?”

Phinis frowned a little.  “That seems a bit simplistic,” he replied.  “Though it’s possible, particularly if the souls he’s using aren’t individually bound to gems.”

Urag, who had been quietly paging through some more books, spoke up again.  “I think that’s part of it,” he said.  “I think it also has something to do with the nature of Dragons themselves.”

“What do you mean?” asked Elspeth.

“Listen here,” he said and picked up another book, _There be Dragons_ by Torhal Bjorik.  “There is no credible story of how dragons came to be. According to dremora that the College of Whispers have questioned, they just were, and are. Eternal, immortal, unchanging, and unyielding. They are not born or hatched. They do not mate or breed.”

Trygve’s eyes widened.  His interest was once again piqued but he was confused.  “You’ll have to elaborate,” he said.  “I don’t really see what that has to do with anything.”

“Every creature has a soul,” he began.  “The soul is life-force, mystical power.   In the cycle of life and death, they are, as Phinis said, an anchor of sorts.   In life, they orient a creature to Mundus and in death to whatever plane of Aetherius or Oblivion they find themselves in.”  Urag scratched his beard and looked intently at the group as he continued.  “But dragons don’t have a conventional life cycle.  Obviously, they can be killed.  Fully resurrecting a dragon, however, just returns them to their original state, eternal and immortal.”

“That’s what makes the Dragonborn special,” said Trygve, turning to Elspeth and forgetting their ruse for a moment.  “You take their souls, their anchor.”  As soon as the words left his mouth he realized his mistake and groaned.  “Shit.”

“I knew it!”  Urag grunted.  “I knew this Nord wasn’t dragonborn.”

“You knew no such thing,” retorted Phinis.  He turned to speak to Elspeth but stopped when heard someone enter the Arcanaeum.

“Elspeth!”  An angry voice echoed throughout the room.

Elspeth jumped and turned to find Ancano walking across the room toward them.  Trygve stood up immediately and put himself between the chair where she was sitting and the furious Altmer.

“Get out of my way Dragonborn,” he fumed.  “This doesn’t concern you.”

“If this concerns Elspeth, then it concerns me,” he said, narrowing his gaze to Ancano.  “She is in my service, not yours.”

Urag feared the Nord would incense Ancano and when the librarian stood and stepped forward, the Altmer’s demeanor turned a bit more civil—though not very.

“I am afraid I must intrude,” he said.  “It is urgent that I speak with Elspeth.”

“This is most inappropriate,” said Urag.  “We are involved in serious research here.”

“Yes, I have no doubt of it’s gravity,” Ancano sneered.  “This, however, is a matter that cannot wait.”

Urag let out a sigh.  Behind him, Phinis was slowly gathering his notes, trying not to attract Ancano’s attention as he put his papers away.  “Well, I’m quite sure I’ve never been interrupted like this before,” he grunted.  “I suppose we’ll continue this at some later time, when we can avoid interruptions.”

Elspeth stood cautiously and looked up at Ancano.  “What is it you need?” she asked firmly, determined to keep her voice steady.

“I need you to come with me immediately.  Let’s go.”

“Not until you tell me why.”

“Oh very well,” he said, irritably.  “Allow me to clarify the situation. I’d like to know why there’s someone claiming to be from the Psijic Order here in the College. More importantly, I’d like to know why he’s asking for you specifically. So we’re going to go have a little chat with him, and find out exactly what it is he wants.”

Hearing him mention the Psijic Order sent a shudder through her body.  She gulped and crossed her arms over her chest in an attempt to look unconcerned by this.  “I’m sure they just want to follow up on our previous conversation in Saarthal.  I don’t think this concerns you, even in your capacity as an… _advisor_.”  She lingered on this last word a bit to indicate that she was indifferent to his station.

“Why are you so worried about the Psijic Order?”  Trygve piped up from next to Elspeth.

“I’ll be the one asking the questions,” he said to Trygve sharply before returning his attention to Elspeth.  “All you need to know is that the Psijic Order is a rogue organization, believing themselves to be above the law. They have clashed with the Aldmeri Dominion before—“

“Sounds like my kind of organization,” Trygve said sardonically as he smirked at the mer.

Ancano glowered and simply continued speaking to Elspeth.  “And, I have no intention of allowing that to happen here.  Now, you are going to speak to this… Monk… and find out why he is here, and then he will be removed from College grounds.  Are you coming?”

It was more of a command than a question.  Elspeth narrowed her eyes and gathered her things.  Ancano turned sharply, his robe billowing in a dramatic fashion.   As Trygve followed, he strode in a haughty, exaggerated manner, as if mocking the arrogant Thalmor.  Elspeth shook her head and laughed quietly at Trygve’s irreverence.

Is this it?  She wondered.  Is this where everything comes together?  Could the Psijic Order make sense of the return of the dragons, her role as the Dragonborn, and could these things be related to what the Order wanted from her?  The thought filled her with such terrified anticipation that she had to stop and catch her breath at the bottom of the steps.

Trygve looked up and when he saw that Ancano had gone on ahead, he leaned over and took her arm.  She was expecting a light tug and a stern gesture to move on and was surprised when he smiled warmly and pressed his palm on her back. “Come on,” he said, gently guiding her up the steps.


	16. Try this Trick

The dread in Elspeth’s chest grew heavier and heavier as she made her way up the stairs to the Arch-mage’s quarters.  Ancano sneered when they entered and gestured toward the back of the room, where Savos was waiting with an Altmer wearing what Elspeth now recognized as the robes of the Psijic Order. 

She looked at Savos as she approached the mer.  He appeared uncomfortable—much as he did the night in Kraldar’s house when he first informed Elspeth of the nature of the Order’s interest in her.   She smiled weakly at him before turning her attention to the other mer.  It wasn’t the same one who addressed her in Sarthaal though within moments the air shuddered and turned cold, as it had in the ruin.  She glance around briefly but soon looked at him attentively when he began speaking.

“I’m Quaranir.  It’s good to meet you Elspeth,” he said.  His voice was steady and composed; however, its haughtiness—typical of most Altmer Elspeth had known throughout her life—had softened and he looked quite concerned as he spoke.  “I’ve given us a chance to speak privately, but I’m afraid I can’t do this for very long.  We must be brief.”

“But I have so many questions,” she cried.  “The purge at the University, the dragons, being dragonborn—I need to know how they’re connected!”  She bit her lip as she looked back at Quaranir.

“You? You’re the dragonb—“  Quaranir stopped.  Like the others, he’d been told that Elspeth’s Nord companion was the Dragonborn and he had been so consumed with getting to Elspeth and warning her about the orb, it didn’t even occur to him that was a ruse.  “Of course you are!” he said firmly, as if he should have known.  “You’re a—“  He stopped suddenly, recalling that Elspeth had no knowledge of her true ancestry.  “You are a chosen one,” he said quickly, desperately trying to recover his poise.  “In time, all will be revealed…I promise.”

She seemed unconvinced by this, but remained quiet and waited for him to continue.  “Elspeth, the situation at the college is of dire importance,” he explained.  “The orb in the Hall of the Elements, the Eye of Magnus, the longer it remains here, the more dangerous the situation becomes.  And so I have come here personally to tell you that it must be dealt with.”

“Yes, but why me?” she asked.

Quaranir paused.  Before Nerussa’s revelation, he would have been happy to pass the task on to any other skilled mage.  He had also greatly underestimated the power of the orb and it’s potential role in helping certain Thalmor achieve their more nefarious goals.  He shuddered at the thought.  If they were to prevail, the Order and its allies needed her—that she was the Dragonborn only reinforced that.  However, it was becoming increasingly clear to him that Elspeth’s role would not be nearly as straightforward as Illario and Nerien had hoped and that it would have to be carefully orchestrated.  But that was too much to burden her with now.

“You must understand,” he began, “the Psijic Order does not typically intervene directly in events.”  This was once true, he thought before he continued.  “My presence here will be seen as an affront to some in the Order, and as soon as we have finished, I will be leaving your college.”  This much was true.  The Masters of the Order were still ambivalent about involving Elspeth and the college in their plans.  And Nerien was going to be livid when he discovered that Quaranir was encroaching on what he believed to be his territory and responsibility.

Elspeth closed her eyes and shook her head.  “All right,” she said, albeit reluctantly.  “Just tell me what I need to do.”

Quaranir felt terrible; she looked so disappointed.  Suddenly, he wanted to reveal everything her knew to her: the Order’s relationship with the dissidents, her Septim ancestry, and how she might rise to power.But he knew that he could not and that wasn’t his reason for being there.  ****

“As I’m sure you’ve realized, the orb you’ve found is immensely powerful.  The world is not ready for it.  If it remains here, it will be misused,” he explained.  “I’m not sure how or when, but something terrible is on the horizon and it is linked to that orb.  You need to seek out the Auger of Dunlain here in your college.  His perception may be more clear than ours.”

“What…who is that?”

“He was once a student at the college.  Now he’s something…well, different,” he said.  “He’s on the grounds somewhere.  One of your colleagues should know where to find him.”

“Okay,” she said quietly.   She supposed that if she didn’t have to leave the college to deal with the orb, it wouldn’t be terribly difficult.  Still, seeking out a student who was now something _different_ seemed dubious at best.

“Elspeth, this conversation requires a great deal of effort on my part,” Quaranir said.  “I’m afraid I must leave you.  I…we will continue to watch over you, and guide you as best as we can.”  He pursed his lips and looked at her intently.  It was awkward for a moment, as if there was more he wanted he wanted to say but was suddenly rendered inarticulate—an unusual situation for someone part of an elite order such as the Psijics.  Finally, he looked at her and said, his tone noticeably softer, “It is within you to succeed.  Never forget that.”

She opened her mouth to say something but nothing was forthcoming as the air around them returned to normal.  Elspeth turned around sharply, assuming a confrontation with Ancano who would no doubt want to know what they discussed, but everyone looked just as they did right when she and Trygve had arrived.

“Well!” Ancano strode forward and stepped up to Quaranir.  “What is the meaning of this?  I’ve brought you Elspeth now tell us what you want.”

Elspeth kept her eyes fixed on Quaranir who gave her a quick, knowing look before turning his attention to Ancano.  “We heard that the Dragonborn of Skyrim had returned and that Elspeth was his mage companion.”

“So?”  Ancano was clearly perturbed at Quaranir’s presence.

“Regardless of the Thalmor’s rejection of mysticism, even a Justiciar can appreciate the significance of such an event to those of us focused on the oldest school of magic.”   He narrowed his eyes at Ancano and gestured to Trygve before turning back to Elspeth to whom he commented,  “When all of this is done, we will want a full report so that our scholars can begin to analyze the consequences of this event for the Order’s intellectual interest.  I trust your librarian will direct you to the appropriate resources.”

His tone was somehow both snide and sophisticated and while Elspeth rather enjoyed the way that he dealt with Ancano, she was eager to leave.  After nodding farewell to Quaranir and to a very fearful looking Savos, she gestured for Trygve to follow her.  When they were outside and well out of earshot of the others, she relayed what Quaranir had told her.

His face darkened as she spoke and when she finished, he looked at her intently.  “We need to talk to Tolfdir,” he insisted.  When Elspeth looked at him quizzically, he continued.  “Well…everything you just said is extremely unnerving.  And I really want to speak with someone who isn’t…you know?”

“I suppose,” she said slowly though she did not protest.  She tried to remind herself that the college was a milieu to which Trygve was not accustomed.  Still, she disliked seeing him unsettled.  Anything less than cold, stoicism on his part made him seem vulnerable, which triggered her ongoing feelings of guilt.  That he was treating her a bit more affectionately wasn’t helping either.

From Tolfdir they learned that the Augur of Dunlain was once a brilliant student and an accomplished wizard whose attempts to harness power led to some sort of accident that left him bound to the midden, the college’s dungeon basement.  Trygve’s unease only grew as Tolfdir spoke, though once the location was given he seemed to recover some of his tenacity.

After a quick lunch they made their way to the midden.  Inside, Trygve glowered as they began to walk.  “What is that?” he asked.

“What is what?”

“I don’t know how to describe it,” he said.  He paused for a moment and looked around.  “The air, it feels thick—it’s not unfamiliar, it’s just more…intense.”  
Elspeth cleared her throat and looked intently at him.  It’s just magicka,” she said.  “It’s everywhere.  But there are higher concentrations here.”  She looked at him intently.  “You’re highly attuned to it,” she said.  She stopped to consider her next statement carefully and then she realized she didn’t actually care much.  “It’s because you’re a mage.”

“I am not—”

“Enough!” Elspeth put her hand up and shook her head.  “If you were just a healer, I might humor you a bit.  But you cast wards Trygve—powerful wards.  I don’t know why you resist the designation so much.”

Trygve scowled at her but considered this for a moment.  “Wards are protective,” he explained.  “I’m not interested in conjuring the dead.  Or in manipulating people and their surroundings.  Or destruction,” he paused.  “Nature is destructive enough as it is.  Harnessing that power is irresponsible.  If it can’t be controlled then—”

“But it can be controlled!” Elspeth protested.  She noticed he did not actually address the issue she posited.  “You can be a mage without doing _any_ of those things.  You need to talk to Collette Marence.  If you just want to stick to restoration, she can teach you so much more.  There are spells that you can use against draugr and skeletons that will send them running.”

“Like fear and those other spells Onmund was casting on you?” Trygve’s voice was becoming increasing louder.  “I’m sorry but no, I have no interest in illusion or anything that manipulates people’s minds.”  On this he was adamant to the point of sounding impassioned, almost as if it was personal.

Elspeth sighed.  “Undead creatures don’t have _minds_ ,” she said, a touch of irritation I her voice.  “Those spells are in the restoration school.”  She paused for a moment to see which way they were heading.  “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little more broad minded,” she said.  And under her breath she muttered, “Though it might kill you not to be.”

Trygve looked at Elspeth sharply, but his face softened after several moments.  But before he could reply, they were interrupted by ice wraiths.  Following this, all conversation apart from shouts and battle directives ceased as they fought their way through the rest of the dungeon.  Once they finished, they continued on in a weary silence until they approached what appeared to be an elevated summoning circle.

“What in Oblivion is this?” Trygve looked a little sick as he approached.  “And I mean Oblivion literally,” he continued, gesturing to the symbol at center of the circle.

“That’s because it’s a sort of link to Oblivion,” she replied.  She held up the book she found and was paging through.  “It’s called the Atronach Forge.”

“That is not a forge,” Trygve protested.

She shoved the book into her satchel and stepped back.  “I can’t wait to show this to Onmund.”

“Elspeth,” Trygve said firmly, “That is _not_ a forge.  He can’t smith on it.”

“He’ll want to see it,” she explained as she turned and walked out.

“But why?” he asked.  “Something like this should be destroyed, if not then sealed off. Two centuries ago the doors to Oblivion were shut permanently, with the help of _your_ ancestor.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Trygve let out a long exasperated sigh and shook his head.  He was going to let her have this one as he really wasn’t in the mood for rehashing every argument he’d ever had about magic with Elspeth of all people.

They continued on and passed through several more doors.  Soon, there was a distinct change in the atmosphere that even Elspeth admitted was remarkable **.**   It was emanating from a locked door, which they approached cautiously.

As she tried in vain to pick the lock, they heard an ethereal voice from behind the door.

“Your perseverance will only lead to disappointment.”

Elspeth rolled her eyes and continued to work the door with picks until they heard the voice again.

“Still you persist? Very well, you may enter.”

The door opened and Trygve gasped as they approached the enormous, ethereal globe of light in the middle of the room.

“Not what you were expecting?” Elspeth said sarcastically before she approached the light.  “So, you’re the Augur of Dunlain?”

“I’m that which you have been seeking,” replied the light.  As he spoke his voice remained ethereal but also raw and deliberate.  “Your efforts are in vain. It has already begun. But those who have sent you have not told you what they seek. What you seek.”

Trygve groaned rubbed the back of his neck.  “Here we go,” he muttered.  He really wasn’t in the mood for the cryptic nattering of this thing.

Elspeth shot him a harsh look though she was inclined to agree with him on this—why did everything have to be so vague **?**   “Quaranir of the Psijic Order told me to find you,” she explained.  “But what is it that I seek?”

“You seek that which all who wield magic seek. Knowledge.  You shall find this: Knowledge will corrupt.”  At this, Trygve gave Elspeth a knowing look to which she responded by rolling her eyes and turning back to the ethereal glow.

“It will destroy,” he continued.  “It will consume.  You seek meaning, shelter in Knowledge. You will not find it. The Thalmor sought the same thing, and it will lead to his end, as it has many others.”

“Th…the Thalmor?” asked Elspeth nervously.  “You mean Ancano?”

“He seeks information about the Eye, but what he will find shall be quite different. His path will cross yours in time, but first you must find that which you need.”

“All right then…what do I need?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.  She was becoming rather impatient, in addition to being anxious.

“You, and those aiding you, wish to know more about the Eye of Magnus. You wish to avoid the disaster of which you are not yet aware. To see through Magnus’ Eye without being blinded, you require his staff. Events now spiral quickly towards the inevitable center, so you must act with haste. Take this knowledge to your Arch-Mage.”

After the glow went quiet, Elspeth let out a deep breath and hurried away with Trygve on her heels.

“So, that used to be a student?” he said derisively.  “And you want me to be open minded about magic because…?

“Shut up, Trygve.”

They hurried back to the college in silence.  In the Arch-Mage’s quarters, Savos was at the table, hunched over several books.  Elspeth was pleased to see him alone, until she realized that Ancano’s absence did not bode well for them based on what the Augur had said.

“Arch Mage Savos!” she exclaimed, still out of breath from their return trek through the midden.  “I spoke with the Augur of Dunlain.  He said that we needed to recover a staff…the  staff of Magnus, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry, what?”  Savos looked up, his eyes filled with dread.  “The staff of Magnus?  A powerful artifact indeed.  As a matter of fact, some members of the Synod were here recently inquiring about that to Mirabelle.  She directed them to Mzulft.”

Trygve’s eyes widened at mention of the Dwemer ruin.  “Great,” he muttered.

Savos turned to respond to Trygve and then thought better of it.  Instead, he shook his head and looked at Elspeth intently.  “Elspeth,” he said.  “I’m not sure what it all means; I wish I did.  But I want to say that I’m pleased with your…” his voice trailed off briefly as if he needed a moment to figure out what he wanted to say.  “Your initiative,” he continued though she had a feeling that wasn’t what he meant.  “If you need anything at all, please just let me know.”

He looked absolutely miserable, in a way that was almost unbecoming of a man of his station.  But Elspeth didn’t inquire.  “Thank you,” she said quietly as she led Trygve out of the quarters and down the stairs.

In the Hall of Elements Elspeth turned and looked at Trygve whose stern countenance was impossible to read.  “Just say it,” she said.

“Say what?” he asked, looking genuinely confused.

“How we shouldn’t be involved with this.  We should be focused on the dragons.  Or something.”

Trygve smirked and shook his head as he considered this.  “I’d like to say that,” he said.  “But you seem to be implicated in all of this already and I doubt you’d see my side of things.  Even if I thought I could drag you away, I’m not sure it would be smart to alienate ourselves from the resources here.”  It pained him to admit this, though his expression didn’t reveal as much.

“I guess we’re going to Mewlzef,” she said.

“Mzulft,” he corrected.  “You’ve never been inside a Dwemer ruin, have you? And no, the stuff in Markarth doesn’t count.”  He chuckled a bit as she shook her head.  “Oh, you are in for a treat.  Come,” he said grinning slightly as he led them out of the building.  “We have many terrifying things to prepare for.”


	17. That Cat's Something

Whatever irritation Trygve felt at having to run _errands_ for the college abated when Urag showed him the resources available on Dwemer ruins in the Arcanaeum.

“There are maps!  I mean, some are incomplete and not well sketched, but still….” Trygve was enthusiastic.  “Iona and I used to have to go into these blind.  I wish I had access to these back when we were exploring Irkngthand.”

“Indeed,” agreed Elspeth.  “If only one of you had known some magic and could have come to the College as a mage.”

“Quiet,” he said, grinning and touching her shoulder lightly as he passed by on the way back to the archive.  After they’d mapped out their route within Mzulft, Trygve continued to pore over the collection while Elspeth read through several books she hoped would give her some more information on the Eye and Staff of Magnus.

After several hours, Lydia returned and plopped herself down in the chair next to Elspeth.  She looked weary, Elspeth thought, and also a little distressed but she made no mention of anything that would indicate why.  Elspeth filled her in on the mission to Mzulft and Lydia nodded along, although it was clear she wasn’t paying much attention.  Her focus was on Trygve and the way he scurried happily about the archive.  Finally, she shook her head and turned to Elspeth.

“How is he…are you doing?” ****

Elspeth’s head fell back and she let out a deep breath.  “We’ve been bickering, but he’s also been rather nice to me, affectionate even.  I don’t care for it.  It just makes me think about how I killed his brother.  I miss the quiet, stoic Trygve.  The one who sat around uncomfortably in Breezehome while the rest of us ate.”

In other circumstances, Lydia might have burst out laughing but she simply looked at Elspeth.  She was worried, but she had no idea what to do.  She wasn’t comfortable admonishing Elsepth to simply push her feelings of guilt away. ****

Trygve joined them and smirked at Lydia when he sat down, laying a pile of Dwemer schematics and other papers in front of him.  “Amabassador!” he said, a sight mocking tone in his voice.  “How is Jarl Korir?”

She scowled slightly.  “He’s very much the same as he always is.  Despite his otherwise pleaasnt interaction with Elspeth before, he was not exactly pleased to hear that the Dragonborn is a Breton and a mage.  But, he offered his paltry resources to the Dragonborn’s cause.”

“Well that’s something,” said Trygve sardonically.

“The Jarl doesn’t need anything?” asked Elspeth.

Lydia shook her head.  “No,” she said quietly.  “The Jarl does not need anything.”  Her face darkened as she stopped speaking.

“What is it?”  Elspeth asked.

“Well Dagur’s been worried about Ranmir and asked if we could help him out, maybe see if we could come upon any information when we’re out.”  Elspeth nodded and then looked at Trygve who was starting to shake his head.  She frowned at him and gestured for Lydia to continue.

“I heard from Haran that Ranmir’s beloved, a woman named Isabelle Rolaine went missing.  Ranmir’s convinced that she left him for another man.  Haran knows that’s not true, however.  She told me where I could find more information….” Lydia’s voice trailed off and she looked at Trygve, who was shaking his head more vigorously and glaring at her.

“No,” he said sharply.  “We don’t have time for favors.”

“Trygve, we don’t have to make it a priority but if we happen across something that will help, then I don’t see the problem.”  Elspeth sensed that something was bothering Lydia and that it was somehow related to this favor.   “Where is this information?  Maybe we’re going there anyway.”

“That’s just it,” said Lydia sadly.  “The person who last saw Isabelle was likely Vex.”

“From the Thieves Guild?  Are you insane?” asked Trygve.

It was becoming clear to Elspeth that Lydia, for whatever reason, really wanted to help this man.  “Why don’t you take J’zargo to Riften and send him to talk to Vex.  Trygve and I can handle this ruin by ourselves.”

“I can’t believe either of you are entertaining this,” said Trygve incredulously.  “Are you trying to become Korir’s thane?  Are you feeling left out Lydia?”  He was teasing, though his point was serious.

“Trygve, I—”  Lydia began but Trygve interrupted.

“You have a sworn duty as a housecarl.”

“You’re right,” she said.  “Of course.”

Elspeth frowned.  She didn’t know why it was important to Lydia, but she supposed it didn’t matter.  “Trygve, shush,” she said.  “Lydia, take J’zargo to the Rift.  We’ll bring someone else to Mzulft.  There are plenty of people we can take with us here.  And as it’s a college mission, it makes sense to take an apprentice.”

Trygve glared but appeared to relent a bit.  “All right, but at least check for any dragon sightings on the way, especially the villages.  Also, if we’re going to take an apprentice, it should be Nirya,” he said.

“So, she’s the one you like?”  Elspeth asked, furrowing her brow a bit.

“No,” he replied, smirking a bit.  “Why would I bring someone I like on a dangerous mission?”

“All right!” Lydia shook her head.  As she listened to their banter, which was friendly and almost playful, Lydia began to fear what Elspeth might eventually say to Trygve on a long journey alone.  “Now that we’re all in agreement, let me take care of everything.”  Her tone was a bit insistent and as she stood and left the room, Elspeth and Trygve looked after her, a little bewildered though they went back to their books and papers without a word.

Lydia hurried up and out of the Hall of the Elements and when she threw the door of the Hall of Attainment open, she crashed into Onmund who dropped everything he was carrying.

“Onmund!” she exclaimed, “I am so sorry.”  She bent down and started picking up the scrolls and books that had scattered everywhere.  “But I was looking for you.”

He chuckled lightly at the mess as she handed things back to him.  “Sure, what do you need?  
Lydia hesitated for a moment, not sure if she was overstepping any boundaries.  “Has Elspeth said anything to you about Trygve’s brother?” she asked finally.

He nodded slowly.  “Yes,” he said quietly.  “She’s really upset about that.  I didn’t know what to tell her.”

“Onmund,” Lydia began, with a hint of desperation in her voice.  “It is really important that Trygve doesn’t find out.   I need to leave Winterhold for a bit.  Can you accompany them and make sure she doesn’t say anything…I need someone I can trust.”

“Of course,” said Onmund.

“Thank you,” she said, feeling immensely relieved at this.  “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to convince J’zargo to consult with the Thieves Guild for me.  That should be fun.”

“The consulting or the convincing?  Because J’zargo?  He doesn’t need to be _convinced_ to do anything for you.”  Onmund gave Lydia an awkward smirk as he gripped his books and walked back up the steps to his room.

*****

The following morning, Trygve made no attempt to hide his displeasure at Lydia’s choice for their travel companion.  Onmund carried only a dagger for a weapon and, like many mages, wore robes instead of armor—something Trygve thought was unwise.  After muttering something about not wanting to babysit ill-equipped mages and triggering Elspeth’s most intense glare, they left for the ruin.

The journey to Mzulft was rather dull.  Trygve, again, warned the others not ruin perfectly good furs so they stepped back while he took care of a snowy sabre cat and a couple of ice-wolves.  They stopped in Kynesgrove and stayed at the Braidwood Inn where Iddra, still grateful that Elspeth and her companions had killed the dragon, gave them their first round of mead for free.

“When you kill all the dragons, we’ll drink for free all over Skyrim,” Onmund chuckled.  Trygve frowned at the thought of Onmund joining them on Dragonborn missions though he felt it best to hold his tongue for now.

It was still dark when they left the inn the following morning and the sun was just rising over the immense ruin.  Elspeth gasped and looked on in awe as they approached.   They’d passed ruins in their travels, but this was the first she’d seen up close.  Almost as soon as they entered, Elspeth nearly tripped over a man—a mage or priest of some sort—lying sprawled out in the entrance.  He was in pain, gasping for air and straining to speak.

“Crystal… gone…. Find…Paratus…in Oculary…”

Trygve pushed past her and sat down, but before he could even determine the extent of his injuries, the man slumped over dead.  He let out a frustrated sigh and stood up again.

“This must be one of the Synod mages,” said Onmund.

Elspeth nodded and began to root around the mage’s satchel, where she found a key and a journal with extensive notes.

“What crystal?” asked Trygve, a touch of irritation in his voice.  “Do we need that?”

“Maybe there is something in here,” she replied, ignoring his tone as she paged through the notes.  The journal was filled with tiny meticulous notes and detailed esoteric diagrams, charts, and what looked to be mathematical calculations.

“You two stay here and figure that journal out while I scout ahead,” said Trygve.

Elspeth liked this idea and began to nod, but Onmund protested.  “No,” he said.  “It makes no sense to leave two of us to read a single journal.”  He had made up his mind that if Trygve didn’t want him there then he wasn’t going to take directives from him.

“Fine,” said Trygve.  “Just stay out of my way.”  He took the key Elspeth had found on the dead mage and opened the adjacent door.

Onmund smirked at Elspeth before following him and leaving her to decipher the journal.  Trygve strode a head through the ruin, moving swiftly and quietly along steam-filled paths and in the shadows of the massive pipes, while Onmund tottered behind.  Sneaking was never his strong suit, but he kept silent and moved along.   At the far end of the first room, a couple of Dwemer spiders fell out of the wall.  Trygve drew his bow, but before he could nock an arrow Onmund shot two perfectly aimed shock spells at the creatures, shattering them to bits.

Trygve’s eyes widened.  “Not bad,” he said.

“The spheres won’t fall quite so easily,” said Onmund.  “And the centurions are impervious to most magic.”  His voice wavered as tried to speak with some authority, but it was difficult to muster.  He wanted Trygve to think he’d seen ruins before, but really all he did was transcribe Arniel’s notes at one time.

It was awkward for a moment until Elspeth caught up with them.  She walked past and went to inspect the shattered Dwemer creature—as that was the sound that brought her from the entrance.

“Why is it,” she began as she sorted through the spider bits that were scattered along the wall, “that Dwemer scholars are all mages and historians?  Why aren’t there Nord inventorsdown here just for this technology?  And this.”  She strode across the room and pointed at the light source built into the wall.  “I want one of these in Breezehome.”

Onmund chuckled.  “Even your most intellectually curious Nord can’t separate the magic from the mechanics,” he explained as he followed her around.  He picked up a cog that seemed undamaged and put it in his satchel along with the journal she handed him.

“Indeed,” agreed Trygve.  “Nords don’t want anything to do with the elves that exist now, much less the ones that aren’t around anymore.”  With a quick jerk of his head, he gestured for them to move on.

They continued to walk quickly through the ruin, though Elspeth would stop occasionally to inspect the giant gears and pipes.  After passing through many rooms, and dealing with more spiders and spheres, they found a door leading to what looked like an abandoned mine.  Elspeth’s detect life spell found two creatures but before they saw anything, they heard a chattering that caused Trygve to pale a little.

“Chaurus,” he whispered but before Elspeth could respond, he was nudging her forward.  “Get that one,” he said gesturing to a shadow toward the shadow to the left.  “Watch for poison.  We’ll get the other one.”

Elspeth charged ahead, using a ward to stave of the poison.  As it stood poised to strike, she drove her sword into the creature’s thorax.  Its shell cracked and crunched and a foul smelling, sticky black substance squirted out and coated her arm.  She grimaced but before she could clean up, she heard a strangled cry of pain from behind her and Trygve shouting.

“Onmund, hang on!”  Trygve was finishing his chaurus off with his axe while Onmund curled up into a ball and writhed on the floor.   Elspeth ran to his side but before she could do anything, Trygve knocked her out of the way.  He took a potion from his satchel and yanked Onmund’s head back, forcing the potion into his mouth.  His eyes were swollen shut and poison burns streaked his face and neck.  These were easily healed with a spell, but the poison coursing through his body was another matter entirely.   “Come on!” whispered Trygve through clenched teeth as he shoved another potion into his mouth.

“Onmund!” Elspeth scrambled to his other side and placed a hand on his brow.  “He’s hot and drenched in sweat.”

“That’s good,” said Trygve.  “That means he’s getting better.”

Within moments, Onmund began to stir and he groaned as he sat upright.  “Come on,” said Trygve as he handed him a stamina potion.  “That’ll bring the rest of your strength back.  We’re going to need it because where there are chaurus, there are Falmer.”

Indeed, the bodies of Synod researchers, chaurus, and Falmer littered the massive ruin.  They checked the corpses for clues to the crystal of which the dying mage spoke but found nothing.  As they continued on, the enemies they confronted were all Dwemer: spiders and spheres.  Onmund, his strength returned, fought aggressively with Trygve at range, while Elspeth moved closer for melee attacks—glancing back occasionally to check on Onmund.  Trygve noticed her lack of focus but he ignored it.

They turned down several rooms and into a long, but narrow room where there were no less than four Falmer, at least one of which was a nightprowler, one of the most aggressive and powerful of the ancient, now strange and decrepit, elves.  They crouched and snuck around until they were more-or-less strategically placed where Elspeth could confront the nightprowler and Trygve and Onmund could take on the smaller, less armored and outfitted creatures.

Elspeth struck first, practically pouncing on the nightprowler and hitting him with fire before slashing at him with her sword. With its back hunched and arms and legs bent and curled, the creature wasn’t much larger than she was but he was stronger and almost as fast. He swung and caught her shoulder and then fell back as a spray of fire hit him in the face.  She screamed and lunged forward, knocking him to the ground.

Just as she raised her weapon to finish him, she mistook a cry of frustration from Onmund as pain and she quickly looked back.  It was merely a glance, but it was just enough time for the nightprowler to lurch forward, knock Elspeth to the ground, and grab his weapon.  She kicked back him back but she wasn’t able to stand fast enough and in one lunge, he jammed his blade into the back of her knee.

In all his years of healing, Trygve had never heard a cry of agony quite like the one Elspeth let out as the nightprowler twisted his sword around and then pulled it out again.  But before he could strike again, the men charged forward.   Onmund destroyed him with a spray of well-aimed lightning as Trygve scrambled to Elspeth’s side.  By now she was gagging and hyperventilating, just short of passing out.  When Trygve tried to set her torn muscles she vomited and passed out, which actually relieved him as it made it easier to work.  Onmund sat on the other side, but Trygve shook his head.  “Check the bodies for whatever it was you were looking for and mind the doors for more of these fuckers.”

By now Onmund was far more willing to take directions and after a passing worried glance at Elspeth, he left.   Trygve worked carefully and then waited, offering a silent prayer of thanks that the knife only nicked the tendon in the back of her knee, which, though incredibly painful, was not too difficult to fix.  “Hold still,” he said as she started to come to.  “Now, see if you can bend your knee.  Do it slowly.”  He gripped her shoulders and helped ease her on to her back.

“What happened?” she groaned as she bent her knee.  It bent with little difficulty, but felt foreign to her.   “Where’s Onmund?”

“He’s checking for more Falmer and other things,” he replied as he helped her to stand.  “Elspeth, you keep getting distracted.  You’ve got to focus.”  His tone was firm, almost angry.  “Your life is the only one you need to be concerned with.”

She turned to protest but stopped when Onmund returned.  He smiled when he saw her standing and held up a focusing crystal.  “It was on the body of one of the Falmer,” he explained.   He pointed to a door on the west side of the room.  “I really hope that’s where we need to go because beyond that other doorway is a centurion.”

“Oh fuck me,” said Trygve.

They proceeded west and then through a narrower hallway, up some stairs until they came to a locked door, which they tried and failed to pick.  They looked around at each other, no one wanting to suggest they walk back around and face the centurion—though it was clear they had little choice.  Just as Elspeth was about to speak, however, a nervous voice came from the other side of the door.

“G…Gavros, is that you?  I’d almost given up hope.  Let me get the door.”

The door was opened by another mage who gasped in terror when he saw the group.  He looked around quickly and focused his attention on Onmund who, in his robes, looked a bit more genial than the others.

“Who are you?” he exclaimed, his voice shaking.  “Where is Garvos?”

“Your friend is dead,” said Elspeth.  “I have his journal here.”  She pulled the journal out of Onmund’s satchel and handed it over.   “Are you Paratus?” Elspeth lingered on the last syllable, not sure if she’d gotten the man’s name correct.

“I am,” he said as he cautiously accepted the journal.  “It was the Falmer, wasn’t it?  They’ve ruined everything.”  As he spoke, his voice grew louder, his anxiety giving way to anger.  “If Gavros is gone, there is no hope.  He was supposed to return with the crystal…without that, all of our efforts are ruined.”

“This crystal?” Onmund produced it from his pocket and held it up.

Paratus’s eyes widened and he gasped.  “Yes, yes that’s it!”

He reached forward to take it, but Onmund held it back and shook his head.  “Tell us what it’s for.”

Elspeth snickered and even Trygve grinned watching Onmund assert himself to the other mage.  The mage glowered, but relented after a moment.  “Oh very well, it was a brilliant idea, mostly mind though Garvos took most of the credit,” he explained.  “I was the one who thought of using this, the Oculary.  I’m not sure what the Dwemer called it…something unpronounceable I am sure.”

Behind her, Elspeth could hear Trygve groaning irritably in anticipation of the mage’s lecture.  “We’re looking for the Staff of Magnus,” she interjected.

“Are you now?”  Paratus’s curiosity was piqued.  He turned and gestured for them to follow as he continued his lecture about the Dwemer and the Oculary they built, likely to discern the nature of the divine by using the machine to collect starlight and then split it.

As he spoke, Trygve muttered something to Elspeth about how he couldn’t imagine why that hadn’t turned out well, but when they made their way up the ramp, he gasped loudly when he saw the Oculary.  It was magnificent—an enormous domed room constructed of iridescent stone, separated by huge moveable metal rings and adorned with green glass disks.  The floor was a metal sphere with an arch that held a cluster of smaller glass disks.  It was striking—the epitome of Dwemer aesthetics and technology.

Trygve and Elspeth stayed back as Onmund placed the crystal in the apparatus and followed Paratrus to the control panel.  Elspeth smiled as she watched Onmund work—alternating between activating the control panels with casting elemental destruction spells—he took everything very seriously.

As the segments of the ceiling moved around, the focusing crystal directed bright streams of light along the ceiling, landing on the large green disks on the domed ceiling.  When the process was complete a large map of Tamriel appeared on the wall just below the platform where Onmund was working.  Elspeth and Trygve hurried over.

“Look at this,” Elspeth whispered as she ran a hand over the stone, smirking a little at the sight of the Jerall mountains on the back of her hand.

“There are two marked locations,” said Trygve, shaking his head at her.   “The college and this.”  He ran his finger across the map.  “Labyrinthian.”

“We go there now?”

“Oh no,” he replied.  “That ruin is inaccessible as far as I know and likely very well _guarded._ We need to be better prepared.  We’ll go back to the college first.”

Elspeth nodded and turned to Paratus and Onmund who were bickering.  When she heard Paratrus angrily mentioned the orb and how the College of Winterhold appeared to be interfering with Synod interests, she became concerned.  However, when he insisted that he would be preparing a full report to submit to the Synod council in Imperial City, it was all she could do not to laugh at such a _threat_.  “Come on,” she said to Onmund who now looked relieved to be done with the other mage.

They rushed through the ruin toward the exit but before they made it, the air shook and once again turned as time stopped and someone from the Psijic Order appeared.  It was the one who approached her in Sarthaal.  This time he introduced himself as Nerien.

“Elspeth,” he said.  “I had hoped it was you who unlocked the oculary.  I commend your initiative in uncovering this information on your own.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have been able to, had the Order not sent Quaranir to direct me.”

Nerien’s face darkened upon hearing this.  “Quaranir sent you?”

“He did…is there a problem?”

Nerien opened his mouth to reply, but then thought better of it.  He was clearly not pleased about something, however.  “Elspeth did Quaranir tell you anything else?”

“Not really,” she said.  “I thought he would be able to tell me if the Psijic Order knew that I was Dragonborn when they were looking for me.”

As Elspeth spoke, Nerien furrowed his brow as a sudden realization overtook him and he began to draw connections between Elspeth and a certain journal he’d recovered from the Thalmor, as well as the dissident elves and Evangeline Sigeweald.  He also understood why Quaranir had stepped in and it infuriated him to think that his fellow Psijic hadn’t trusted him.

Nerien looked at Elspeth intently.  He wanted to tell her everything he knew but realized that this would be a terrible idea.  She had things that needed to be dealt with immediately.  The orb.  And the dragons.  In the meantime, he decided, he would consult with the other Psijics and the Oracle.

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that Elspeth,” he replied.  “You must return to your college at once.  You will be called to take swift action.”

“But….”  Elspeth was irritated.  She knew he was holding back something, but she was exhausted and short of throwing tantrum begging him to say something, she didn’t know what to do.

“Elspeth.” His voice had lowered a bit and grown even more somber as he continued. “ You are on the right path and you will prevail.”  His words were meant to encourage and though he meant them, they sounded forced.   And Elspeth, tired and frustrated, simply nodded.

As he faded, she didn’t stop or look around.  There was no information to relay; they just needed to get back to the college.  And so with Onmund and Trygve at her heels, she hurried out of the ruin.


	18. When I Try to Understand

_Come to me, Kynareth, for without you, I might not know the mysteries of the world, and so blind and in error, I might consume and profane the abundance of your beautiful treasures._

_~ Pocket Guide to the Empire, 3rd Edition_

 “I’m the innkeeper. It’s my business to keep track of strangers.”

Xeri was about to tell the irritable and anxious Breton exactly what she could do about her business when Nerussa sidled up and shoved a tankard of ale into her hand.  “Please excuse my friend,” she said, scowling at Xeri, “we’ve had a very long day.  And I can assure you, we’re leaving in a couple of hours.”

Before Xeri could protest, Nerussa gripped her arm and dragged her to a table on the other side of the tavern and away from the curious eyes of the innkeeper.   “Why do you always have to make everything so difficult?” she asked as they settled into their chairs.

The Dunmer ignored this question and gestured to the papers that Nerussa was pulling out of her bag.  “Have you translated that scroll yet?”

They found the scroll on the body of a spriggan earth mother that attacked them almost as soon as they returned from the Void, where they had met with the initiates of the Trials of St. Alessia.  The scroll was covered in ancient symbols and a language that looked to be a variant of Nedic.  Nerussa had spent the morning studying it, while Xeri and Evangeline repaired their weapons and armor at the smithy and procured supplies from the shopkeeper in Riverwood.

Nerussa narrowed her eyes and looked intently at Xeri.   “Use Nature’s gifts wisely. Respect her power, and fear her fury.”  Her tone was firm and she spoke with authority, as if reciting a sermon.

“That’s what the scroll said?” asked Xeri.  She sounded a bit doubtful, though she supposed she had no reason to be.

“No.  That’s Kynareth’s command.  I thought it would be an appropriate way to introduce the first trial,” she explained.  “We need to head to the temple in Whiterun.”  She unrolled the scroll again, intending to show Xeri the symbols that conveyed this specific information but when she saw the look on the Dunmer’s face, she realized this information was of no interest to her.

“The temple of Kynareth in _Whiterun_?  Are you serious?”  Xeri pressed her palms to her eyes and pursed her lips.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Nerussa.

The usually stoic womer scowled and jerked her head toward the room where Evangeline had retired.  The Breton’s disposition had grown increasingly distressed since they’d returned from the void.  She had barely spoken while in town with Xeri and had excused herself for a nap after barely touching her lunch.  She was miserable; Xeri could feel it and Nerussa knew it.  Or she should have.

Nerussa’s face softened.  “I have the utmost confidence that regardless of how ambivalent she might feel, that Evangeline is more than capable of adhering to—”

“ _Ambivalent?_ ” Xeri was incredulous.  Surely Nerussa wasn’t that stupid.  “I don’t think you understand the magnitude of her distress.  She’s not weary and indecisive; she’s despondent.  I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like it.”

Nerussa rolled her eyes.  She wasn’t unsympathetic, but Xeri’s sudden display of compassion was dubious at best.  “Really Xeri, I don’t think you appreciate how capable people really are.  Of course she’s a bit unhappy.  She can’t see Elspeth and her only source of information concerning her daughter is….well, you.”

Xeri opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it.  There was absolutely nothing to be gained from an argument apart from tension and exasperation.  “Very well,” she said as she curled her hands around her tankard and took a long drink.  Evangeline would push through her despondency, she supposed.  She had to.  They all had to.

After finishing their drinks, they woke Evangeline and set out. They arrived at Whiterun just after midnight and approached the gate cautiously, their faces partially obscured by their hoods.  They intended to stay by the stables for a couple of hours and enter the city when it was most likely that Elspeth and her companions would be sleeping.  An hour went by, spent in an uncomfortable silence that was eventually broken by the chatter of some guards who had decided to stop by the stables.

“My cousin’s out fighting dragons and what do I get? Guard duty.”

“How exactly did your cousin come to be in the service of the Dragonborn?”

At the mention of the Dragonborn, Nerussa’s curiosity was piqued and she edged a little closer to listen to the guard’s response.

“Trygve?  He’s always doing important things.  Jarl Laila made him thane of the Rift after he—“

But before Toki could explain, Nerussa had wedged herself between the two guards.  “Excuse me, what is this about Trygve and the Dragonborn?”  When Toki merely looked up, clearly bewildered as this interruption, her face softened a bit.  “My name is Harinde,” she explained.  “I knew Trygve in the Rift.  I knew Birkir as well.  You said that Trygve is out fighting dragons with the Dragonborn.”

“Yes,” he replied though he still seemed a little confused.  “After they killed the dragon she absorbed the soul.  Jarl Balgruuf made her thane and she’s gone with her companions—“

“WHO? Who is this Dragonborn?”  Evangeline yanked Toki toward her as hard as she could—had she been just a little bit stronger, she would have dislocated his arm.  Toki was now horrified as well as confused and his friend was just about to draw his axe when Nerussa spoke up again, her voice was both soothing, for the sake of the Nords, and stern, for Evangeline.

“Please, everyone calm down.  This is Caterine Louvier and she is a priestess of Akatosh who has come all the way from Imperial City seeking information on the dragons.  You must understand; it has been a long and difficult journey.”  Though they had worked out their false names and stories ahead of their journey, the ease with which Nerussa spun this yarn was almost startling.  But it had the affect of halting Evangeline’s panic and reassuring the guards who confirmed that the Dragonborn was a young Breton named Elspeth and that she had recently left with her companions.  Nerussa nodded and bade them farewell.

As they made their way up the road to the city, Xeri scowled, “Do you have any idea how much trouble you almost caused?  The fate of these trials depends—more than anything else—on discretion.”

“Xeri, what’s done is done.  There is no need—“

“Nerussa, don’t make any excuses,” Evangeline replied, looking sheepish and uncomfortable.  “Xeri’s right.  Please, let’s just get to an inn. If Elspeth isn’t here, we can sleep and head over to the temple in the morning.”

But Evangeline didn’t sleep and her thoughts remained troubled.  Over breakfast, she brought up the matter of the Dragonborn once again.

“All the Septims were Dragonborn,” said Nerussa, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening. “It’s really not all that remarkable.”  
“But it is!” Evangeline was insistent.  “If Elspeth is Dragonborn then why are we doing this? Shouldn’t that be enough?”

“It doesn’t matter. We are bound to the trials,” Xeri interjected before Nerussa could respond.  “Are you going to eat that?”  Evangeline frowned but passed her plate to Xeri who happily devoured the remaining scrambled eggs and cured meat.

“Besides, there were others who were given Akatosh’s divine blessing,” Nerussa explained.  “No, these trials, the amulet, it’s all essential.”

When they finished, the left the Bannered Mare and made their way to the temple, where they waited until Danica Pure Spring was finished tending to her patients.   The priestess looked exhausted as she approached but offered them a weak smile as she led them to the benches that lined the side of the temple’s main room.  “Children of Kynareth, how may I be of service?”  The greeting was not insincere but her tone was weary and tinged with a little sadness.  Xeri and Evangeline looked at the woman intently as Nerussa stepped forward and offered her the scroll.  Upon examining the parchment with the strange symbols, the woman’s countenance changed considerably, as if her energy was being reinvigorated.  “You’re here to help me.   All right then, this way.”

They followed her outside to the courtyard, where she gestured to the large withering tree above them.  “The Gildergreen” she began, “It’s a bit of an eyesore at the moment. More of a problem for the pilgrims than for me, but not many of them come around anymore.  A big dead tree isn’t very inspiring if you’re coming to worship the divine of wind and rains. Kynareth gives life, and we need a living tree to be her symbol.”

According to the priestess, in order to bloom again the tree needed sap from the Eldergleam, the oldest living thing in all of Skyrim and from which the Gildergreen was grown from just a wee sapling.  The sap could only be accessed with a tool called Nettlebane, an ancient blade forged by hagravens that was said to be the only thing strong enough to penetrate the Eldergleam’s bark.  Their first task was to recover the weapon.

*****

Orphan Rock was just a few miles outside of Helgen.  As they passed through, the women stopped and observed the ruined town, which was now littered with the dead bodies of the bandits who had attempted to settle there after the dragon destroyed it.

“This was the first town I stopped in after crossing the border,” said Nerussa.  “I expected to be regarded somewhat suspiciously, but everyone was civil…if not kind.”  As she looked around, she realized that neither Xeri nor Evangeline were paying any attention to her as they were both reflecting on the damage wrought by the dragon.

By now it was clear that just being in Skyrim was doing a number on Evangeline.  When she let Xeri take Elspeth over a decade earlier, she knew that the dangers her daughter would face would be considerable.  But seeing Helgen and imagining the terror that Elspeth had to flee was almost too much to bear.  Back in Frostcrag Spire, she buried herself in strategy and training.  In Skyrim, with reminders everywhere, it weighed heavily on her mind and was unbearable at times.

“We should keep moving,” said Xeri.  She regarded them coolly, but she was astonished at the magnitude of the damage done by the dragon and felt a twinge of what could only be described as pride at the thought of Elspeth escaping this disaster.  Though she would never admit this to the others.

They arrived at Orphan Rock a little over an hour later.  The huge formation was accessible by a fallen tree and from their hiding place they could see only a single hagraven atop the giant rock.   After nodding to Evangeline to watch her back, Xeri approached, crouching across the tree bridge.  She grimaced as she sneaked up behind the haggard bird-crone and let loose a powerful fire spell.  The hagraven screeched and threw her own lightening spell, which Xeri deflected with a ward.  They continued to toss spells at each other until Xeri finally lunged forward with her mace and, after enduring some painful shocks, bashed the old crone’s head in.

“I’m all right,” she protested harshly when Evangeline found her on the other side of the rock from the bridge, though she was still suffering from the hagraven’s spell and her muscles quivered painfully.  Evangeline offered her potions while Nerussa recovered Nettlebane from the hagraven’s body.

*****

They arrived back in Whiterun two evenings later and the following morning walked in on Danica having an argument with someone—a pilgrim of sorts.  He was complaining loudly about the condition of the Gildergreen—insisting that, in its current state, it was in no condition for worship and meditation.

The priestess looked relieved to see them, if only because it allowed her to move away from the complaining pilgrim.  She led them to the far corner of the room, out of eyeshot of everyone else.  “So, have you gotten Nettlebane back from those filthy hagravens yet?”

Xeri nodded as she unsheathed the ancient weapon and held it out.  The priestess recoiled when she saw it and put her hands up.  “No,” she said firmly, not wanting to touch such an artifact.  “Just take it to the Eldergleam and bring the sap back here.  Then you will have fulfilled your duty and will be rewarded with the aspect of Kynareth.”

They nodded in thanks but before they could turn to leave, the priest strode across the temple.  “Excuse me,” he said, “my name is Maurice Jondrelle. I am a traveler. A pilgrim. I follow the voice of Kynareth wherever it can be heard. I’ve dreamed of seeing Eldergleam for years. Might I travel alongside you? I promise not to get in the way.”

“No.” Xeri’s voice was firm, not harsh.  But it was clear that she was not going to be argued with.  Evangeline rolled her eyes and Nerussa opened her mouth, but thought better of it and simply shook her head.

“You might want to reconsider.”  Danica’s voice sounded across the temple, causing them to stop.  Xeri turned back with a harsh scowl.  Before she could respond, however, the priestess approached them and continued, her voice considerably lower.  “Think for a moment about the manner in which you conduct these trials.”  She paused and brought her pressed hands to her face and lowered her eyes as if in deep thought.  Finally, she looked up again and straightened herself.  “This is my counsel.  These trials are not tasks.  They are not a series of steps, where the final goal is all that matters.  Rather they are a journey in which each step you take is judged against the ideals and values of the god being served.”

*****

The journey to the Eldergleam sanctuary was long.  Maurice spoke with Nerussa at length about Kynareth and her place in the Divine’s pantheon, something the mer’s years of studied had prepared her for and which she hoped would help her pass as a mere scholar. Evangeline, who had been thrown into the role of priestess for the sake of their disguise, did not have the knowledge for such conversation so she walked a few steps behind an incredibly annoyed Xeri.

By the time they had arrived, however, everyone was tired and irritated.  So it was with immense relief that they entered the sanctuary, though they were all quite unprepared for what was inside.  The path led them to an enormous grove lit from above and filled with lush flora and numerous insects.  Two small waterfalls filled the space with a dull, yet soothing roar.  And in the center of everything stood a beautiful tree, similar in appearance to the Gildergreen in Whiterun, but much larger and in full bloom.   There were other pilgrims, several of whom stood to greet the group as they passed.

Xeri didn’t want to waste any time.  Ignoring everyone else, she hurried down the path to the Gildergleam.  However, as she kneeled down and took Nettlebane from her belt, Maurice shouted and ran down the path.  The Dunmer was confused, but refused to let the monk distract her.  She turned back down to the trunk and as she raised the weapon, he charged forward and grabbed her wrist.

“No! You can’t cut into the Eldergleam!” He tried to take the weapon but he missed the hilt and grabbed the blade.  He refused let go but all he got for his trouble was a deep gash in his palm as she yanked the blade out of his hand.

By now Evangeline, Nerussa, and the others from the grove were gathered around, looking confused.  Xeri shoved Maurice out of her way but when she tried to lift the weapon again, the rest of the worshippers lunged forward and pushed her to the ground.  The furious Dunmer dropped the blade as she yelled and tried to kick her way out of the pilgrim pile.   Nerussa grabbed the weapon and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, she and Evangeline snuck around to the other side of tree, where they found Maurice.

“You can’t do this,” he pleaded.

Evangeline raised her sword to stave off any more attacks.  “I am sorry,” she said calmly, “but this is something we have to do.”

“Please don’t.  Do you have any idea the wrath you will incur if you cut into this sacred tree?”  His voice started to break and when he opened his mouth to speak again, he simply couldn’t.

Nerussa couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen anyone look quite as desperate.  She bit her lip and looked around.   She could hear Xeri shoving her way past the pilgrims and as the Dunmer made her way around the tree, her mind started to wander, thinking back to Danica Pure-Spring’s counsel and Kynareth’s command.

_Fear her fury._

The admonition rang in her head as she looked past the tree to Evangeline, Xeri, and the worshippers.  When her gaze returned to the tree, she put the blade in her belt.  “No,” she said finally,  “we’re not doing this.”

“Are you insane?” Xeri was fuming, though she paused for a moment and took a breath.  “If for some reason this is difficult for you, I can do it.  But we don’t have a choice.”

Nerussa responded calmly but firmly.  “I believe we do.  I believe the choice is what we are being judged on—not simply the goal.”

Xeri shook her head.  “We can’t go back there without the sap.  We were tasked to help repair the Gildergreen. We were given the instrument to do it.  Besides, taking heed of the steps toward a goal doesn’t negate the goal either.”

“We weren’t given the instrument; we took it.” Evangeline reminded her as Nerussa nodded vigorously.

Before Xeri could respond or simply take the weapon back, Maurice spoke up again.  “Could I help?”

“No.”

“Shut up Xeri.”  Nerussa turned to the monk.  “What would you suggest?”

He narrowed his eyes to the Altmer, “I think I can convince the tree to help us.”

Xeri started to mutter something under her breath but Evangeline looked at her harshly until she was silent, though she remained furious at being admonished like this.

Maurice stepped forward and knelt by the tree.  Within moments there was a sound, like a lower pitched Nirnroot, and a pale light shone on the ground.  In the center of the light a sapling appeared.  He picked it up and brought it to Nerussa, gently placing it in her hands.  “The Eldergleam has blessed us with a sapling. You should take it to Whiterun. Danica will want to see that the true blessings of nature lie in renewal, not a slavish maintenance.”

Nerussa smiled.  “Thank you,” she whispered.

*****

When they arrived at the temple several days later, Xeri was still skeptical.  And her skepticism was almost proven correct when they presented the sapling to Danica.

“What is this?” she asked, clearly exasperated.  “I can’t run the Temple without the support of people who are inspired by the Gildergreen. How can this little tree bring new worshippers?”

Nerussa let out a long sigh.  “Maurice asked us to convey the message that Kyne’s true blessing lies in renewal, not maintenance.

Danica considered this for a moment and  then nodded.  “Yes… you’re right of course,” she admitted.  “It can be hard to hear the winds of Kynareth when all you hear are the rabble in the temple.  Death feeds new life. I’m sure that, in time, this little sapling will grow into a new Gildergreen that will tower over Whiterun.  I can’t thank you enough, but I do have this for you.”  And with that, she handed them a new scroll, indicating they had passed their first trial and would be awarded the Aspect of Kynareth, and on which was named the location of the next trial.


	19. Once there Was a Way

(A/N: This chapter continues from [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3710686/chapters/17836507).)

Something was wrong.  By all indications, everything in Winterhold was normal and quiet, but Elspeth took one look at Faralda and could tell by the distinct look of terror on the Altmer’s face that something was terribly wrong.  Had Trygve and Onmund not been there, pushing her up the bridge, she might have collapsed as her body turned cold and her head dizzy from the flood of emotions triggered as Faralda desperately motioned for them to hurry.   Following her gesture, they ran through the courtyard, past the apprentices and instructors who had gathered around the statue and were staring helplessly toward the Hall of the Elements.  They stopped to speak with Brelyna but were interrupted by Drevis who pulled Elspeth away from her companions.

“They need you,” he croaked and pushed her toward the hall.

Elspeth took a deep breath and charged into the antechamber, gasping when she saw the barrier that had been cast on gated door that led to the main room.  Initially, it looked like a powerful ward but a closer inspection revealed a wall created from energy that appeared to be in a perpetual state of motion.  Then there was the noise.  From a distance it sounded like a low hum, but up close sound of buzzing static was almost unbearable, causing Elspeth to cringe and recoil.  But before she could move away, Savos grabbed her arm and pulled her so roughly that Elspeth’s first instinct was to hit him, though he was speaking before she had a chance to react.

“Elspeth! Thank the gods you’re here,” he said, his voice a combination of relief and dread.

“What is happening?” she asked.

“It’s Ancano. We don’t know what he’s doing.  We’ve been trying to find a way inside,” he explained.  Then he turned and looked at Elspeth intently.  “We may need your spell.”

She paled at the suggestion and started to protest that it wasn’t her spell and that she would rather not, but Mirabelle stepped in.  “We’ll use it as a last resort, for now just use your most powerful storm and incineration spells.” She turned and readied her hands to cast. “On me, 1…2…3.”

As Elspeth cast Thunderbolt, she admired the way Mirabelle took charge.  Her tone was commanding, yet her delivery was firm and composed.  With her, things seemed less terrifying but not less urgent, keeping Elspeth focused, when she could just as easily collapse at the prospect of yet another purge of mages.

They cast spell after spell; the sounds of the violent clash of fire, frost, and lightening against the barrier reverberated in Elspeth’s head and shook her to her core.  This barrier was possibly the strongest of its type she’d confronted and she was becoming increasingly terrified that they would never break through and the destruction of the college would happen as she watched helplessly.  Finally, after what felt like an eternity—but was probably not more than twenty minutes—the barrier started to waver.  They gave one final push and with a loud, electrifying snap, it fell.

After shoving replenishing potions into Elspeth’s palm, Mirabelle lunged forward after Savos.  Elspeth swallowed an elixir and hurried ahead, but as she entered the main hall she stopped and gasped.  At first glance, Ancano appeared to be simply casting a powerful lighting spell on the orb.  However, it soon became apparent that the power being generated between the Thalmor adviser and the strange artifact was immense.  A field of static engulfed the room, making it difficult to think or even move.  Panic gripped her once again as she looked at Ancano. He didn’t speak, but his countenance was menacing, like that of a madman.  Before his presence was merely intimidating—as anyone in Thalmor robes would be.  With the sheer amount of power he seemed to be creating, however, Elspeth was certain that something terrible was about to happen.

Mirabelle screamed for Savos to hold back, but to no avail.  Elspeth tried to approach but the static in the air grew so thick that it was impossible to move without feeling sharp pricks on her skin.   She looked up to see the Arch-Mage who had somehow gotten within inches of the Altmer.  Digging her heels in, she forced herself forward, pushing against the painful sensation that wracked her body when she moved.  Within moments there was a deafening sound, one that seemed to start in her head and push its way out.  Elspeth’s whole body once again seized in terror, and as her visual field went white, she knew she’d met her end.

*****

“Elspeth!  Elspeth!”  Mirabelle’s voice echoed in her head.  “Are you all right?  Can you get up?  I need you on your feet.  We’re in trouble here.”

The master wizard sat propped up against a stone column.  Elspeth rolled over and leaned back, her body twitching as sharp, painful shocks continued to reverberate through her muscles and bones.

“Wh…what happened?”  Talking hurt, as the static seemed to work its way around her jaw, causing her teeth to chatter.  Looking around, she saw another huge barrier had been erected, this time around the orb.  She squared her jaw and looked at Mirabelle intently, forcing herself to ignore the prickly feeling on her tongue and lips.   “Are you all right?”

“Never mind me, I’ll be fine,” she said, though her tone indicated otherwise.  “Ancano is doing something with that thing.  We can’t stop him.”  She groaned and shifted slightly.  It was clear she was in a bit of pain, but she drew back and held her hand up when Elspeth reached forward.   “I haven’t seen Savos since the explosion.  He must have been blown clear and he may be injured.  I need you to find the Arch-Mage and I need you to do it quickly.  Get moving!”

Elspeth knew that Mirabelle was not in good shape but she dared not defy her.  She hurried out of the Hall of the Elements though when she arrived back in the courtyard, she stopped suddenly, letting out a strangled cry when she saw the Arch-Mage sprawled out on the ground, his lifeless body surrounded by a small group of mages.

“Elspeth!” Trygve’s voice broke through her stupor and she lunged forward; but before she reached the arch-mage’s body, he and Onmund were on either side of her, gripping her upper arms and holding her back.  “Not now,” he said.  “Something’s happening to Winterhold, some sort of magic is destroying the town and we need to stop it.”  
Elspeth swallowed against the lump in her throat and scowled as she jerked herself away from the men and hurried out of the courtyard.  From the bridge she could see Farada, Arniel, and a bunch of destruction apprentices battling what looked to be thousands of strange magical creatures.

“What in Oblivion are those things?” asked Onmund.

“I have no idea,” she replied, though the low humming sound that now pervaded the town was painfully familiar.  The creatures, which looked somewhat like wisps and attacked like ice-wraiths, were not ethereal in nature but instead seemed to bemade up of the static energy that had engulfed the Hall of the Elements.  Their bodies were composed of a bright, glaring light that made looking directly at them difficult.  At the base of the bridge, the swarming, glowing mass made it almost impossible to see more than a few feet ahead though Elspeth could clearly discern some of dead bodies on the ground; so far all appeared to be guards.

As she drew her sword and readied her casting hand, she felt someone bump up against her.  It was Faralda who was tossing fireballs haphazardly at the creatures.  “Don’t bother unless your weapon’s enchanted,” she shouted.  “Some of the mages are pairing up, standing back to back; others are using cloak spells—fire seems to work best.”

Trygve, whose weapons were useless, went to see who needed healing or if his wards could be of any use, while Elspeth and Onmund charged off in the opposite direction from Faralda.   The creatures, too numerous to count, swarmed the entire town. Elspeth and Onmund stood back to back and cast a series of incineration spells and one wall of flames—which turned out to do more harm than good, killing only a handful of the creatures and blocking Onmund’s sight and letting swarms of creatures pass right by and on to a group guards who were clumsily trying to cast spells from a pile of scrolls Faralda brought from the college.  Elspeth wondered if perhaps they were doing more harm than good, hitting each other and scattering the strange static creatures to the edges of town rather than killing them, but as they started dive bombing her and Onmund, she didn’t have time to ponder this.

“Elspeth!” Trygve shouted, “Behind you!”

She glanced over and saw a figure darting amongst the creatures toward the rundown building on the west edge of town.  Elspeth could not tell who it was, but it was clearly not a guard or an apprentice.  Fuck, she thought but before she could follow them, she felt Onmund collapse behind her.

“Onmund!” she screamed as she whipped around.  After quickly killing the last creature darting around his head, she could see he was fine, weakened a bit by his injuries, but not seriously wounded.  “Oh thank gods,” she said, reaching out to help him.  But before she could, she felt someone yanking her up by the neck of her armor.

“What the fuck—Trygve!”  She jumped to her feet and angrily jerked herself away from his grip.  
“Come on!” He glowered as he ran back toward the dilapidated building with Elspeth on his heels.  The last of the creatures were swarming around and Elspeth picked them off one by one.   When the dust—or whatever it was that turned up as these things were destroyed—settled, Elsepth could see the woman who had made her way to the building lying in a heap on the ground.  “Oh gods,” Trygve gasped as he tried to find a pulse.

From behind a pile of broken boards came a cry as a little boy crawled out.  He took one look at the woman and let out a choked sob.  “Ma!” he cried as he threw himself on top of the woman and wept.

Elspeth covered her mouth as Trygve stood back.  Curious mages gawked at the commotion, but remained a respectful distance.  Only Onmund approached and when he did, his face fell.  “Oh no,” he whispered.  “Elspeth that’s—

“Thaena!  Assur! THAENA!”  Jarl Korir’s voice thundered in her head as he ran up, flanked by several guards and his steward, Malur.  He shoved everyone out of the way and fell to his knees by his wife, gripping his son by the shoulders.

They stepped away and averted their eyes while the Jarl held his son and cursed the gods.  Soon the apprentices started to wander back toward the college.  Only Elspeth, Onmund, and Trygve stayed, knowing the Jarl would demand an explanation.  Elspeth felt terrible.  Had she simply run after the Thaena as soon as Trygve called out, she might have prevented this.  A long, awkward silence passed and after the Jarl sent his son away with Malur, he stepped up to the group, his face red with grief and anger.

Though Elspeth stood poised and ready to confront the grief-stricken jarl, her voice trembled as she spoke. “Jarl Korir—” she began.

“You fucking mages!” He bellowed as he lurched forward with his hands out, ready to throttled her.  She steeled herself for his attack, but Trygve wedged himself between the incensed Jarl and the Breton.

“My Lord,” he shouted.  “I will remind you that Elspeth is the Dragonborn.  Now we are extremely sorry—“  
“Sorry!” he sputtered.  “Sorry doesn’t bring my wife back you milk drinking elf-fucking piece of shit.”

Elf fucker?  That was new.  Elspeth frowned sadly; she was trying think of something to say, something that might diffuse the tension and express, in a way that wouldn’t incite more ire, how completely sorry she was.  But there were no words.  So she kept her mouth shut and despised herself for it.

Trygve stood practically nose to nose with the furious jarl, who still looked like he might tear into Elspeth’s throat if he got past him.  “Step away my Lord.  Step away before something happens that you might regret.”

Before the Jarl could respond, Malur sidled up behind him, this time accompanied by Kai Wet-Pommel, the Stormcloak officer stationed in the Jarl’s Longhouse, several guards and Frida, a local priestess.  Korir looked at them and glared, but Malur managed to coax him away while the officer and the priestess directed the guards to move Thaena’s body.

They stood quietly until they saw the last of the group disappear into the shack that functioned as the town’s hall of the dead.  “Come on,” said Trygve gruffly.  “We need to get back.”  He turned without so much as a glance in Elspeth’s direction and hurried back up the bridge.

She felt the last bit of energy leave her body as she leaned into Onmund.  Swallowing against a hard lump growing in her throat, she fought back tears as she continued to scan the town, now empty but for an occasional guard.  This was all her fault.  She resisted a bit as he tried to guide back up toward the college, as if standing in the cold all night staring at the strange debris that littered the ground could be penance for her failure to save the jarl’s wife.  But there was much more to do.  As she trudged up the bridge toward the college, she tried to prepare herself for the next task by focusing her thoughts but she was simply too weary.

They needed to find Mirabelle, but Onmund took one look at Elspeth and directed her to his room.  “Go lie down, please.  I’ll talk to Mirabelle.”  She opened her mouth to protest, but realized she desperate needed the respite he was offering.  Although she knew an important job was forthcoming, the master wizard was the last person she wanted to see and for once she was happy to leave the details to someone else.

After seeing her safely into the Hall of Attainment, Onmund walked across the empty courtyard.  Inside the Hall of the Elements, he shuddered at the sight of the orb, still encased in the powerful barrier and quickly made his way up the steps to the Arch-Mage’s quarters, where he found Trygve talking with Mirabelle just outside the door.

“She’s resting,” he announced before either of them could ask; his tone firm.  There was nothing either of them could say that couldn’t be relayed to Elspeth later.

Mirabelle nodded and turned back to the conversation she’d been having with Trygve.  “Tolfdir and I will try to keep this contained.  Elspeth needs to get her hands on the staff of Magnus.

“Are you certain the staff will help?” asked Trygve.  “Leaving the college at this point seems dubious at best.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed, “but if the stories about the staff are true, if it really can absorb a tremendous amount of power, it may be the only way to break through Ancano’s magic.”  She didn’t sound terribly confident, but it was fairly obvious that they had little choice.  “Elspeth was directed to get the staff,” she reminded him.  “That can’t be discounted.”

“I guess we’re going to Labyrinthian then,” Trygve said.

“Labyrinthian! The staff is there?” Mirabelle sounded surprised at first but then she looked thoughtfully at Trygve.  “Well that can’t be a coincidence.  Wait here.”

Mirabelle disappeared into the Arch-Mage’s quarters and when she returned, she handed Trygve an iron torc.  “Savos told me that this was from Labyrinthian and that I would know what to do with it when the time came.  I think it’s meant for you—well, Elspeth.  I’m not sure, but there was something very personal about it for him.”  Then she paused for a moment, her face falling a little.  “I also think she should have this.  It’s Savos’ amulet.  Take it.  Now, get some rest and then get that staff.”

After Mirabelle turned back into the Arch-Mage’s quarters Trygve crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Onmund intently. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to stay behind while Elspeth and I head to Labyrinthian,” he said.

“Excuse me?” said Onmund.  He had no idea why Trygve didn’t want him to accompany them, but she wasn’t about to leave a grief-stricken and guilt-ridden Elspeth alone with Trygve.

“I think Elspeth fights better without you around,” he explained.

“I doubt that’s true,” he replied, narrowing his eyes and glaring at the other Nord.  “I’m not staying here.”

“Very well,” said Trygve, letting out a frustrated sigh.  “Here, take the torc and the amulet. I’m going to stock up on potions.”  He paused for a moment, as if considering his next question carefully.  “How much do you weigh? About 12 stone?”

“What? Why do you…never mind, yes…12 stone sounds about right.”  Onmund let it go, not really caring what his weight had to do with anything.

“We’ll leave in a couple of hours.  Make sure she rests.”  Trygve said sternly before walking down toward the  Arcanaeum glaring the whole way.

Onmund shook his head and let out a frustrated sigh as he left the hall and walked back across the courtyard.  He pondered Trygve’s comment and recalled the times he fought alongside Elspeth.  He never knew her to be anything but focused and disciplined.  Trygve was wrong.

Back in his room, however, Elspeth was distracted and miserable and he had never seen her in such a state.  She lay on her side, staring blankly at the wall, not even acknowledging when he came in.   As he sat down, he nudged her gently and moved her hair out of her face.  But she was unresponsive, almost catatonic.   Onmund wasn’t sure what to do.  He was worried, but he sat next to her and simply waited for her to react to him in some way.

“The Jarl’s wife is dead,” she said finally, her voice raw and defeated.  “Because of me.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” he replied.

“Yes, I can,” she said firmly.  “I can’t…how could I have been so careless?  Whatever tolerance Korir was holding for the College—

“Was never there in the first place.”  He wasn’t inclined to interrupt her normally, but he wouldn’t let her beat herself up for all this.  “Elspeth,” he said quietly.  “You won’t be able to save everyone.”

There was a long silence after that.  She was unconvinced in this instance that such reassurance was deserved.   And the more she played the scenario over in her head, the clearer that became.

“Come on,” he said, tugging her up.  “We have a few hours to sleep, then we have to recover the staff in Labyrinthian.”  While Elspeth pulled her armor off, Onmund reorganized their satchels, removing rubbish from their last trip and making room for new supplies.  When he returned to her, she still looked rather unhappy though far more comfortable now in her woolies.

He pulled out Savos’ amulet and paused for a moment, feeling somewhat awkward at presenting her with another amulet.  But he pushed this aside; his discomfort wasn’t important.  “Here,” he said as he lay down beside her.  “Mirabelle thought you should have this.”

She looked at it sadly and started to shake her head but Onmund put his hand to her cheek, directing her eyes to his.  “I’m going to put this on you.  Even if you think you don’t deserve it…you’ll have a chance to earn it soon enough.”

“All right,” she whispered and dropped her head down.  He placed the amulet around her neck and after smoothing her hair down, pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Good night,” he said quietly.   “We only have a couple of hours before Trygve wakes us up.”  He heard Elspeth murmur something softly and within moments, they were both fast asleep.

 


	20. Someone in My Head but It's not Me

Labyrinthian was an enormous ruin, so imposing that even the mountains that towered in the distance seemed to shrink in the backdrop of the stone columns, sprawling staircases, and carved totems.   As they stepped inside the courtyard entrance, Elspeth stood, mouth agape, her gaze moving slowly across the snow covered paths and staircases.  Such a place gave one an immediate sense of one’s insignificance as well as an impending sense of doom.

“Incredible, no?”  Trygve’s voice interrupted her thoughts as he wedged himself between her and Onmund.  “To the north is another path that leads directly to Whiterun hold.  It comes out just around Onmund’s forge.”

Mention of the forge caused Onmund to turn and glare a little though he did not respond.  Throughout the entire journey, the tension between the two men had been apparent, but since everyone was cooperating to this point, Elspeth opted not to remark on it. 

“With its central location, Labyrinthian was one of the most important cities in ancient Skyrim,” Trygve explained, gesturing for them to move for forward, as if they were tourists on holiday.

“I’m surprised that more travelers don’t use the path between the two holds to this day,” said Onmund, who had no idea the massive ruin was so close to where he had been working in Whiterun and was feeling a little insecure about his apparent lack of geographical knowledge.

“Well, you shouldn’t be,” Trygve replied, gesturing toward two frost trolls gnawing on bloody bones.   As if on instinct, he nocked his bow and aimed at the closer one, while Elspeth and Onmund hurled fire spells as the second, who charged the group after Trygve’s arrow nailed his companion in the neck.  The second troll writhed and fought against the fire to no avail and was down within a few moments.

The group moved quickly up the steps and let out a collective gasp as they reached the entrance.  There was someone already there, an apparition of sorts.  Onmund and Trygve held back, but Elspeth approached cautiously since the ghost did not attack or otherwise seem hostile.   A closer look revealed that it was Savos Aren, which made her tremble a little.

“Savos,” she whispered hoarsely.  She was right in front of him, but he did not notice or regard her in any way.  After several moments, however, he responded, not to her, but rather to several other apparitions that appeared.

“Come on, we’re finally here! Let’s not waste any more time!”  His voice was considerably more youthful sounding and for a moment, Elspeth was unable to suppress a grin at the notion of a the Arch-mage as a young man, full of ambition and enthusiasm.  But when the other apparitions—college apprentices by the looks of it—began speaking, she stepped back.  Amongst them, there was much excited chatter, though Elspeth was unable to discern their conversation.  Frowning, she joined Trygve and Onmund up by the door, looking a bit dismayed as she continued to observe the group of specters standing around the platform.

“Is that Savos?” Onmund asked; his tone was cautious, almost fearful.  Elspeth had to remind herself that Onmund had a much longer history with the late Arch-mage.  She nodded sadly and touched the edge of his robe, but before she could reply she felt the amulet on her neck grow warm.  She clutched at her chest and neck but it as she was unable to easily remove it, she simply frowned and fidgeted a little, trying to determine if the talisman was going to sear itself into her skin or if it was simply some enchanted effect.

As the apparitions disappeared, she stopped squirming for a moment and threw her hands over her ears as she heard a familiar voice echo in her head.

_“I knew you’d come eventually. It would seem I’m bound to this place. The bitter irony of it all—my greatest failure, and even in death I can’t escape it. I never meant for any of what happened here. Tried to seal it up, lock it away forever. But now it all comes out again….”_

“Elspeth!” Trygve shouted.  “Elspeth, the torc!”

Ignoring Trygve, she let out a frustrated sigh and gripped the top of her head in her hands, desperately trying to focus.  But she was troubled.  Savos was communicating directly with her.  Did he mean to guide her? The notion should have been somewhat reassuring, but it wasn’t.  It was a portent—of what, however, she did not know.  Finally, she removed her satchel and shoved it into Trygve’s hands before turning away and letting her gaze wander over the courtyard.  Onmund sidled up next to her, but didn’t say anything.  As she stood there, she should have felt comforted by his presence but there was only anxiety at the thought of what Savos Aren might consider his greatest failure.   The feeling would have been overwhelming had it not been interrupted by the loud crack and squeal of the ancient door as it opened.

Aside from the lack of draugr and other ruin-dwelling creatures to greet them, the vestibulewas much like that of any ruin.  Elspeth held back, clutching the neck of her armor and looking around, which annoyed Trygve.  Before he could complain, however, the apparitions appeared again; their animated and excited conversation echoed in the hall.

“What happened to them?” Elspeth whispered, though no one could hear her—at least no one among the living.

_“There were six of us. Full of ambition, eager to conquer the world. It was Atmah’s idea to come here, at first. She talked me into it, and I convinced the others. We were sure we’d find it all here, hidden away from time. Power, knowledge… All the things we didn’t want to wait for. We thought it would be so simple.”_

And then it was quiet once again and Elspeth could not be sure if his words were intended to guide her or if perhaps his spirit simply wanted to unburden itself.  She let out a quiet, but frustrated sigh as she followed Trygve down a dimly lit hallway that led to an old rusty gate.  The gate opened to a room so enormous, Elspeth would swear it spanned the entire base of the mountain into which the ruin was built.  It was filled with hostile skeletons, which tended to be more of a nuisance that anything else—shattering with the single touch of a destruction spell a well-aimed weapon—and the group separated.   Elspeth picked them off one by one, alternating between fire and shock for variety and driving her sword into those that somehow evaded her spells.

Like shooting ducks in….but before she could complete the thought, a terrifying sound echoed throughout and a massive skeletal dragon emerged from the back of the room.  Elspeth gasped but before she could attack, a powerful chain-lightening spell hit the dragon in the face from the left side.  The dragon whipped around and immediately attacked in the direction from where the lightening came.

“Onmund!” Elspeth screamed as she quickly turned and ran off to find him.

“What in Oblivion are you doing?”  Trygve hurried over and shouted after she took off toward Onmund.  “Aw fuck,” he said as he lost sight of the Breton and began shooting arrow after arrow at the huge skeleton.

The terror of finding Onmund’s body burned, blackened and curled into itself like the townspeople in Helgen and the guards at the western watch tower was overwhelming left her unfocused, missing opportunities to attack the dragon as she attempted to dodge its fire.  Following Onmund’s spells from the other side of the room, she fell over crumbled rocks and tripped own feet.  With lightening coming from one side and arrows from the side, scorching and piercing his head and neck, the dragon whipped back and forth, spraying a wall of fire directly on the path she was running slong.  Though the heat was intense and the flames blinding, Elspeth pushed forward, until she felt the dragon’s bony wing smash against her side.  She was so distracted; she failed to notice just how close she was to the beast.  What happened next was a blur as the dragon knocked Elspeth against a stone column.

When she came to, Onmund was pulling her to her feet and Trygve was glaring.  “What were you thinking?” he shouted.  Onmund too looked concerned, though he remained quiet.  Elspeth ignored them both.  As she stepped toward the dragon’s corpse, Trygve spoke again; his voice was remarkably quieter though not calmer.  “Elspeth—”

“Shut up!” she screamed.  The amulet was growing warm again and she hurried forward, away from the men, straining to listen.

_“Girduin died first. It happened so fast; none of us had a chance to react. One moment we joked about what we’d find below, the next he’d been ripped in half. And then we were all fighting just to survive. None of us were prepared. It was amazing the rest of us survived. When it was over, Atmah, Hafnar and I stared, pale-faced, at one another, unwilling to admit we’d made a terrible mistake. We could have turned back. It could have ended there. But we kept going.”_

“This is not guidance,” she exclaimed.  “It’s a confession.”

“What?” asked Onmund, as he approached her slowly.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head.  As the amulet cooled down again, she played his words over in her head.  Was her task to somehow correct the Arch-mage’s mistake?  The notion made her terribly uneasy.  She looked back at her companions.  Were they repeating the events of the past?  And what did that mean for—she looked up at her companions, letting her gaze wander a bit and then settle on Onmund.

“Elspeth, are you okay?”  Onmund interrupted her thoughts.

“I’m fine,” she said curtly.  “Let’s go.”  She looked straight past the men and hurried across the enormous room.  At the far end of the room a set of stairs led down a steep hallway at the end of which was a small pedestal with an etched carving.  Elspeth brushed some dirt away and lit a magelight over the pedestal, but before she could read it the apprentices appeared again.  The details of their conversation remained unclear, though the shift in their tone was apparent.  Whereas before the group was enthusiastic and confident, they now seemed despondent and terrified.  The only voice she could discern was that of the younger Savos, urging them to continue.

She walked into the next room slowly, waiting for the amulet to grow warm and for Savos to continue his declaration of guilt and regret.  But it didn’t come.  Instead, they were met with a swirling gust of blinding white and blue light and a distinct menacing man’s voice.

_Wo meys wah dii vul junaar?_

While the question was delivered, Elspeth drew in a sharp breath and tried to steady herself as a very distinct and painful sensation overtook her body, like an electrical shock that started in her heart and moved outward from her chest and along her limbs, nearly depleting her entire magicka reserves.  Never before had she felt anything quite as painful.   Elspeth had been born with an inordinate amount of magicka, even for a Breton.  As a child, it had enabled her to cast powerful spells, almost as easily as she could draw a breath.  And while there had been battles and training sessions that wore her reserves down, never before had it been drained so quickly.

“What was that?” asked Trygve.  “What did he say?”

She shook her head.  Though the dragon tongue had a certain familiarity and encounters with the word walls gave her direct knowledge of shouts, the language itself was still foreign.  “I…I don’t know,” she began, “I just—”

But they were interrupted by a figure that emerged from a cluster of ice-crystals on the floor, a frost spirit according to Trygve.  Killing it caused the crystals to dissipate and a door to open.  Past the door was a steep drop, with a narrow stone path spiraling downward and several dragur wandering in the distance.  As Elspeth stepped forward she was greeted once again by the gusts of blue and white light, the menacing voice, and pain.

_Nivahriin mus fent siiv nid aaz het?_

The light and the voice didn’t appear to have the same effect on the men as it had on her and Elspeth steadied herself, determined not to reveal how much pain the light and voice caused her.  As she studied her companions, she realized that she was being targeted.  Not only that, but between Savos Aren’s confessions to her and his spectral group of mages—she was certain that something terrible was going to happen, something similar to what happened before.  And that did not bode well for her companions.  She wondered if she should proceed alone, though she knew that suggestion would not go over well.

Trygve was pacing back and forth along the edge of the platform, surveying the area.  “I think we should split up,” he said suddenly.  The others looked at him, a little surprised, he quckly explained.  “Elspeth needs to follow that voice.  But if there are other skeletons and dragur, they might be drawn to it as well.  I don’t want to risk what happened in Wolfskull Cave happening here, not in a place this big.  Onmund and I will check these alcoves and take care of the dragur down at the at the bottom you can slip down along the path.”

She hated to admit it, but the suggestion brought her much relief.  She nodded as she carefully rearranged her supplies so that she had extra magicka potions handy.

Onmund, who was clearly skeptical of this plan, sidled up to her and squeezed her hand.  “Be careful,” he whispered.

“I will,” she replied, smiling weakly and touching her forehead to the top of his arm.  She glanced back one last time before taking the narrow path across the chasm.

“Come on,” said Trygve as he jumped down to the lower platform, immediately drawing attention of the dragur wandering along the lower part of the chasm.  The Nords killed as many creatures as they could, missing only those on the bottommost depths of the cavern.

“Okay,” said Onmund, “let’s check that room and move along so we can catch up to her.”  Though he could appreciate the preemptive attack against the creatures in the lower parts of the ruin, he wasn’t overly fond of being separated from Elspeth for too long.

“Right,” said Trygve.  The entrance on the far side of the platform away from the upper platform led to a rocky hallway with only a couple draugr, fewer than either of the men were anticipating.  The iron door at the end of the passage opened to a dark room with enchanting and alchemy tables, and a few chests, but otherwise, nothing dangerous.

“All right,” said Onmund, somewhat impatiently.  “Let’s get back.”  He turned and was surprised to see Trygve standing by the door, staring him down a bit.  “What?”

“I’m going to ask you to leave,” Trygve replied.  “Go back to the College or Morthal, if you don’t feel like riding out today.”  His tone was firm, betraying his seriousness, but not insistent.  Not yet.

“Have you gone mad?” asked Onmund, “If you think I’m going to abandon—”

“Onmund, I have no doubt you want to help protect Elspeth more than anything.” Trygve’s tone remained steady.  He had no desire to argue with the other man.  “You can’t.  When you’re around she’s….” He wanted to say useless, but that was something of an exaggeration, not to mention somewhat insulting.  “She’s distracted and unfocused. Sloppy.”

“I am not going back to the College.  And now we’re wasting time when we should be rooting out more draugr and catching up to her.”  Onmund was angry.  Even if Elspeth was a bit distracted, she was still a capable fighter.  If Trygve didn’t think so, he wouldn’t have sent her off alone in the ruin.

Trygve let out a steady breath and looked at Onmund intently, frowning a little.  “Well, I didn’t actually think I would convince you.”  He wandered back over to the alchemy table and pulled out a couple of bottles.  “Let me see your dagger,” he said.  “I want to poison it.”

“All right,” said Onmund as he handed the other Nord his weapon and watched him apply the toxin to the blade.  “But what for?”  He hardly ever fought with it and this was the first time Trygve had mentioned treating it with any sort of potion.

“Because, I am going to stab you with it.”  Before Onmund could react, Trygve grabbed him and jammed the blade into his upper arm.  Onmund gasped and tried to strike back, to defend himself.  But his muscles clenched and stiffened as the paralytic took hold of his body.  As he pitched forward, Trygve caught and propped him up.  “You are not going to die,” he said.  “I promise.”  If Onmund even heard this, Trygve couldn’t tell, not in the dim light.  But he knew he wasn’t dead.  His pulse and heart rate were normal.  He should just sleep.

Trygve looked around.  The room would have been an adequate place to leave him, closed off from draugr.  But the potion that he had concocted for this particular plan was a new one and he wasn’t entirely certain how long it would last or what condition he might awake in.  Hoisting him over his shoulder, Trygve decided to carry him back up to the entrance.  He’d have immediate access to the exit and the time it took would give him a small buffer so that when he caught up to Elspeth, any explanation of her beloved’s absence would be less suspicious.

*****

Alone, it was much easier to focus and Elspeth walked along the path swiftly but quietly, steeling herself for the next magicka-draining message, which came soon after she crossed a narrow bridge that traversed the chasm from the ledge.

_“You do not answer…Must I use this gutteral language of yours?”_

Elspeth’s mouth dropped open, shocked to hear the common tongue but she made no attempt to respond.  She simply hurried along, across another bridge and into an open room with a single but exceptionally powerful draugr.  Then down another wide stair into an empty room, which led to a narrow dank hallway that smelled of old mushrooms and moldy books.  She could hear water rushing and the hallway merged with a stream and led downward into a flooded room, the exit to which was at the end of a flooded tunnel.  With no other way out, Elspeth lifted her bag over her head and waded through the water, which was cold but surprisingly not frigid.  By the time she reached the door, she was soaked up to her chest, and the sensation of being cold and wet only seemed to magnify the sensation of magicka loss, which once again gripped her as she neared the door.

_Have you returned, Aren? My old dear friend? Do you seek to finish that which you could not?_

He believed that she was the Arch-mage.  Elspeth paused for a moment and clutched her chest wondering if he was simply speculating or if it was the amulet.  Did it carry some aspect of Savos Aren that he could sense, like a soul gem?  If so, it was even more precious that she imagined and once again she felt unworthy of it and of the posthumous closeness she was sharing with him now.  It saddened her to think that under normal circumstances, he might have been a mentor of sorts.  And now there was just…this.

She glowered and pulled herself through the water.  The exit led to another dank room that was difficult to maneuver due to crowded fallen stone supports.  She slogged around in her wet armor, defeating, not only draugr, but also trolls, wisps and wispmothers and a fire spirit.  Then, some time between the trolls and the wispmother, the voice realized that it was not the Arch-mage to whom he was speaking.

_Did he warn you that your own power would be your undoing? That it would only serve to strengthen me?_

“He hasn’t told me shit,” she grumbled quietly to herself.  She was growing weary and impatient that perhaps she would never see the end of the ruin.  For a moment, she thought perhaps that was the trick; there was no end.  That was unlikely; after all the Arch-mage had made it out at some point.  So, she pressed on, room after room, draugr after draugr.  After a while, the rooms, much like the reanimated ancient warriors, began to lose their distinctiveness.

At the top of a spiral staircase filled in with dirt and rocks, Elspeth saw the apparitions again, another one missing from the group.  Though it was distressing to watch the group grow smaller and smaller each time, there was something rather, for lack of a better word, reassuring about them.  They were familiar and their presence signaled that the events she was witnessing and living through were, at the very least, moving forward—however terrifying that was.

_“Elvali died here. I don’t even remember what killed her. One of the countless faceless horrors. I think she was glad, in that final moment. Hafnar was covered in blood, but his stupid Nord pride wouldn’t let him admit defeat. I… I don’t know why I pressed the others on, convinced them to keep going. ‘If we can just make it through, it’ll all be worth it,’ I told them. And the fools believed the words I myself didn’t trust.”_

The despair in his voice was palpable but instead of making her sad, she began to grow angry. She wanted to lash out, that if it was her task to somehow resolve the errors of his past that she needed something more than just his agonizing.

“Savos!” she exclaimed angrily as she stepped forward, though she had no idea what she would demand of him.  It didn’t matter, however.  Within moments of her outburst, she saw what probably killed Elavali: a draugr and its warhound, in some sort of spectral form.  “Well shit,” she said as she slipped quietly through the tunnel and cast a lightening spell in their direction.  The translucent glow made it a little easier to aim at spectral creatures, but apart from that, they weren’t much different from their non-translucent brethren.  She wondered if their ghostly form was because she was approaching the source of the blinding white light.  At this point, that was something of a relief.  She just wanted it over.

_“Come meet your end.”_

“All right,” she screamed.  To this point Elspeth had been cautious, moving steadily through the ruin.  The strategy was meant to conserve her energy.  But she was done.  There was no waiting for her magicka to recover this time.  She swallowed a potion and didn’t even wait until she was fully recovered before she took all the anger and fear that was building up and, ignoring how exhausted she was becoming, proceeded to dash through the rest of the ruin, slaying spectral draugr left and right, pausing only to recover from the injuries sustained when she stupidly ran straight into a soul gem trap and then to quickly study a word wall, from which she learned, _Tiid_.

Ordinarily, she would have taken a moment to reflect on the word but not this time.  She moved on through a narrow hallway with enormous ceilings and into a room with several altars, where the apprentices appeared and Savos spoke to her again.

_“There were only three of us left. Takes-In-Light just sat down and gave up, and we left her there to die. I’ve no idea what killed her, but I’m sure something did. Atmah cried to herself. Hafnar wouldn’t look at either of us. And I kept telling them it would be all right. I was in charge now. I pushed them on, insisting it would be worse to try and go back. What happened after was my fault. All mine.”_

By now, she was barely paying attention.  The rest of them died, likely in some horrible fashion.  And the late Arch-mage blamed himself.  It was hardly surprising, but it wasn’t particularly helpful either.  She stopped for a moment, just to catch her breath.

Elspeth opened the door and as she peered into the next room, she gasped.  The room was large, dank, and filled with stone moss-covered columns—it was like many of the rooms she’d passed through, apart from the spectacular glowing orb in the distance in which a figure seemed to be encased.  From where she was standing, she couldn’t discern the features of the figure.  Connected to orb were two streams of light, which lead to two elevated platforms, considerably higher than the one on which the orb sat.  The streams seemed to be emanating from two more figures sitting on their respective platforms, as if they were holding the orb in place.

What in Oblivion—

_“We all knew this was the end. Without even opening the door, we knew what was behind it would kill us. None of our spells were potent enough, none of our wills were strong enough. ‘No matter what, we stay together,’ Hafnar said. I looked him in the eyes and lied to him.”_

The individuals holding the orb in place were the Arch-mage’s last two companions.  Elspeth had only read about such magic in books.  As the realization settled in, her heart began racing.  Never in her life had she felt so ill prepared.   Swallowing hard against the dry ache in her throat, she looked across the room again, trying to determine how to approach the ones holding the orb in place.  As she tried to plan her attack, she was startled by the sound of shuffling and she whipped around with her sword drawn and then nearly passed out with relief when she saw Trygve hurrying toward her.

“Oh thank gods,” she said, catching her breath.

He regarded her coolly, looking past her to observe the situation.  “What do you know?” he asked, not making eye contact, though Elspeth didn’t seem to regard his aloofness as particularly unusual or remarkable.

“Not much,” she said quietly.  “Savos continued to speak to me but he just…well, he didn’t tell me much, other than how remorseful he is at what happened here, to his group.”  She paused and looked back toward the doors again.  “Trygve, where’s Onmund?”

The Nord was quiet for a moment, but his face betrayed neither guilt nor regret.  “We split up a while ago.  He won’t catch up for a while,” he explained, careful to maintain a steady tone.

Elspeth was somewhat relieved to hear this, though she didn’t say as much.  “All right,” she said.  “Those two figures, thralls of some sort, are holding that orb in place so that whatever it is can’t escape.”  She strained her eyes to see, but she could not discern the figure.  “If that’s the source of the blinding white light, we’re in trouble.  He’s been draining my magic all day.”

Trygve raised his eyebrows, but didn’t comment on the magicka issue as he had nothing helpful to say.  “Well, that’s a dragon priest,” he explained; his lips trembled slightly as his anxiety slowly became apparent.  “And I doubt the barrier will be penetrable until we get rid of the other two.”

Elspeth nodded and started to hurry toward the higher platforms.  “Hold on,” he said, yanking her back.  Why had no one ever taught the Breton to plan? “Get close to the priest, hang back by that column and use it for cover.  I’ll take care of the thralls—I think can get them in one shot.”

She groaned inwardly, all but certain he wouldn’t get far with just arrows. “Trygve, don’t underestimate the strength of this magic, I don’t know—”

“This might help,” he said, gesturing to the enchanted bow he was carrying.  “I picked up on the way in here.”

Elspeth nodded approvingly, suddenly awash in feelings of gratitude that he was there.  He could be so insufferable, pernickety and arrogant at times.  But he was capable and perhaps far less stubborn than she gave him credit for.  They parted and Elspeth positioned herself behind the column close to the priest, where she could still keep an eye on Trygve.  It took him more than a single shot but the bow was quite effective in taking the thralls down.  When they were both gone, Elspeth pushed all the fear in her chest away and drew her hands up to cast. Within a split second of being released from his barrier, the dragon priest summoned a storm atronach.  From the corner of her eye she saw him pelted with arrows.   Elspeth aimed, first with a dual casted chain lightning, trying not to think about how much she hated dual casting.  Instead, she focused on nailing him with the most powerful spell she had at her disposal, drawing up a powerful lighting storm and praying it would be enough.

It wasn’t enough and it took all of Elspeth’s energy simply to restrain the dragon priest while Trygve shot arrows.  The immensely powerful spells filled the room and Elspeth sustained more damage than she had since her early days of training when Xeri sent her on quests and missions far beyond her skill level.  Her muscles quivered painfully as the shocks penetrated her armor and before long she was down.  When her face met the stone pavement, there was a moment of what could only be described as sweet relief and she closed her eyes, readying herself for light and silence.

But it was not the end.  There was silence and shuffling, a cold hand propping her up by the neck and a familiar, bitter taste in her mouth.  “I’m okay,” she said as she coughed and tried not to choke on the healing potion.

“Sure you are,” Tryge replied as he stood and stepped over her limp body.  “Rest a moment.”  He found the staff and a few other things in the dragon priest’s remains, some sort of enchanted mask and bone meal.

Elspeth rolled herself on to her knees and pushed herself to her feet.  “I can’t rest here, we need to leave, find Onmund and then an inn.  Please.”

“Of course,” he said, “I think there is an exit this way.”

Elspeth limped along, with one eye just open enough to follow Trygve around the room.  She was utterly and completely spent—that she could walk at all could only be explained by some sort of Divines intervention.   He led her across the platforms and down a steep ramp, offering to carry her every time she stopped, which she not-so-graciously refused.   Behind the double doors leading out of the room, they were confronted by another specter but just as Trygve drew an arrow, it spoke.  It was the Arch-mage, his younger self.

_“…I’m sorry, friends. I’m so sorry! I had no choice! It was the only way to make sure that monster never escaped! I promise you, I’ll never let this happen again! I’ll seal this whole place away…”_

“He did that,” she said, referring to the thralls and the protective barrier, not quite certain how to react otherwise.  “He just left them.”  She looked at Trygve sadly, praying he wouldn’t comment.  And he didn’t, he just nodded slowly and gestured for them to move on, which Elspeth was more than happy to do until the amulet grew warm again.

“Here we go,” she said. Trygve looked at her strangely but simply waited.

_“I had no choice, don’t you see? I had to leave them behind, had to sacrifice them so I could make it out alive. If we’d all died there, if we’d loosed the thing on the world, who knows what might have happened? That’s how I consoled myself for years, after I’d sealed this place shut and vowed never to let anyone open it. Now you’ve put it all to rest, but it can’t undo my mistakes. They can never be undone….”_

Elspeth threw her hands over her mouth as a strangled cry left her throat.  She did not want to cry in front of Trygve, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.  And she wasn’t even quite sure why she was crying.  She had fixed what he had done—at least to the extent that it could be fixed.  And yet, Savos Aren would never have peace, not even in death.  But that’s not why she cried.  It had been an impossible situation, and he had to make a terrible choice, a choice she could now see herself making.

“Come on.”  She felt Trygve’s strong arm around her and she let herself lean on him, just a little as they walked up the path toward the next door.

The door opened suddenly and for a moment, Elspeth expected it to be Onmund.  Needless to say, she was more than a little disappointed at the Thalmor Justiciar who barged in.

“So, you made it out of there alive,” he sneered.  “Ancano was right…you are dangerous.”  He glanced at Trygve who was waiting with a nocked an arrow.  The justiciar was unfazed by this.  “Oh well,” he continued.  “I’m afraid I’ll have to take that staff from you now. Ancano wants it kept safe…oh, and he wants you dead. Nothing personal.”

“Of course not,” she replied, too weary to attack.  With only a moment to decide what to do, she opted to save her energy.  She drew back a breath and shouted, “ _Fus Ro Dah.”_

The usual discomfort she felt when shouting was present, but this was offset somewhat at the sheer satisfaction she felt watching her voice throw the justiciar clear into the next room, where Trygve’s arrow pierced his chest right before he hit the ground.

The next passage led them to the enormous room at the top of the ruin and it wasn’t long before they were in the entry room once again.  Elspeth looked around nervously, wondering if the Onmund had perhaps confronted the Thalmor.  Even Trygve seemed anxious as he looked around the room.

“Let’s check outside first,” he said as he hurried to the door.

Onmund was staggering around on the platform outside and as Elspeth and Trygve emerged from the ruin, he fell against a stone column and vomited.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Trygve muttered.

Elspeth frowned in confusion but opted not to ask what in Oblivion he was talking about and rushed to Onmund’s side.  “What happened?” she asked.

He replied by keeling over and throwing up again.  Then he passed out.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Trygve. He had no idea what sort of residual effects the toxin was having on the young Nord and he felt a little bad.  At the very least, he could get them someplace warm.  He hoisted Onmund over his shoulder once again.  “We’ll stay in Morthal tonight.”

[Author note: Savos’ “confession” is from [his](http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Skyrim:Savos_Aren) page at uesp.net, labeled as unused dialogue.]


	21. The Best Thing and the Worst Thing in my Life

Onmund was still sleeping when Elspeth returned to their room after washing.  Moorside Inn’s tub wasn’t much bigger than Breezehome’s and after Labyrinthian, she would have loved nothing more than a good long soak.  But it was only meant to be a quick stop to recover their energy and in that respect, she was lucky for any sort of a bath.  After laying out her armor to dry and organizing her satchel for the next day’s journey, she knelt by Onmund and felt his forehead.  He wasn’t feverish, though he was a bit pale.  His illness seemed to come out of nowhere, but she really had no idea as he had been sleeping since they left the ruin.  Trygve advised keeping him hydrated and said that he should be fine in the morning.  She checked that there was a pitcher of fresh water on the side table and was contemplating bringing some food back to the room when he began to stir. 

“Elspeth,” he moaned as he rolled over on to his side and tried to sit up.

“Hey,” she said, propping him up with the extra blanket from her bedroll.  She poured out a goblet of water and handed it to him.  “How do you feel?”

He groaned softly as he took the goblet from her.  The cold water soothed throat, which was raw from vomiting, and he finished it in several gulps.  He passed it back wordlessly, drank two more cups and lay back down before he finally spoke.  “Why did he have to poison me?”

He sounded simply miserable, sad and confused, but Elspeth had no idea what was referring to.  “Onmund, what are you talking about?  Who poisoned you?”

“Trygve,” he said, curling on his side and pulling the blanket up to his chin.  He let out a long breath and looked back up at Elspeth.  “We…we were arguing about—” He stopped, not willing to admit that Trygve had asked him to leave.  “I don’t even remember.  He asked for my dagger and he coated it with something.  Then he stabbed me with it.”  He ran his hand up under his sleeve and rubbed his upper arm, but although he could still feel it, like a phantom stab, the wound was all but gone.  That Trygve had taken the time to heal it somehow made it more embarrassing, though couldn’t explain why.  Instead, he looked away from her and gathered the blanket up and buried his face in it.

As he spoke, Elspeth grew angrier and angrier, though she forced herself to remain calm.  It was obvious that he didn’t want to talk about it much and she didn’t blame him—she could only imagine how embarrassed he was.  All she knew in that moment was how furious she was.  “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.   He didn’t look up; he simply gestured toward a bucket in the corner of the room and he closed his eyes.  After placing the receptacle by his head, she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead and quietly left the room.  Outside the room, it took every ounce of restraint she possessed not to storm across the tavern with her sword drawn, screaming for Trygve’s throat.

Instead, she paused just long enough to steel herself against her own fury.  After biting down on the inside of her lip hard enough to draw blood, she strode over to where Trygve was sitting, drinking mead and eating steamed mudcrab.   She slammed her hands down on the table causing the plate and bowl to clatter, sloshing the butter around and knocking cracked and empty crab legs about.  “Tell me” she seethed, leaning down to meet his face directly, “why I shouldn’t toss you across the room right now.”

Trygve washed the crabmeat he was chewing down with a mouthful of mead and looked at her calmly.  “You really don’t want to be drawing that sort of attention to yourself,” he replied, nodding toward the table on the opposite side of the tavern where three Thalmor agents were sitting.  Elspeth gasped and stared for just a moment before turning and sitting across from Trygve, her face a bit paler than before.  “Jonna said they were just _passing through_.” He sounded doubtful.

How could he stay so calm, she wondered.  She frowned and as the anxiety from seeing the Thalmor abated—though it did not go away entirely—she resumed her fuming and scowled intensely at him while he just sat there poking at the end of his dinner and swirling his drink around in its tankard.  After a few moments, it became clear that she would have to be direct with him as Trygve he no response to her apparent rage.

“Trygve,” she said firmly, though it was clear she was struggling to keep her voice steady.  “Why did you poison Onmund?”

He paused to take another gulp of mead and cleared his throat.  “Well, I thought about knocking him out, but mages have those flesh spells.  The sleeping potion seemed more efficient and less dangerous.”

“Have you lost your fucking mind? How is that less—you know what? I don’t care!” Elspeth pursed her lips and continued to glare at him as she recalled the look on Onmund’s face, lying there in bed, weary and humiliated, unable to look her in the eye.  “Do you have any idea how much damage you’ve done?”

“Do you have any idea how much I don’t care?”

Elspeth was stunned silent. She knew better than to expect a heartfelt apology or pleas for forgiveness.  But she was certainly not expecting such cold indifference.  “You’re a Nord,” she said after a silence that, for was terribly uncomfortable for her though he didn’t seem to notice.  “You should have know better.  You should have let him fight even…even if you thought it was too dangerous for him and he—” Elsepth stopped as her heart seized up in her chest.  “It would have been the right thing to do,” she said, struggling to keep her voice firm.

He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest as he studied her for a moment.  “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I didn’t poison him because it was too dangerous _for him_ —I did it to protect you.”  Elspeth just started at him incredulously, her mouth slightly agape.  When she didn’t respond, he leaned forward and looked intently at her.  “I think he’s a perfectly capable fighter, even if he relies too much on magic.  You’re the one who doesn’t seem to think so.”

On this last point, she jerked her head up and met his gaze.  “What are you talking about? I don’t think that at all.  You’re wrong,” she was firm, defensive.

“Am I?” he asked.  “You’re a mess when he’s around.  You’re unfocused.  You’re clumsy.  You get hurt and…” His voice trailed off for a moment as he considered his next point.  “Other people get hurt.  People you should have been helping.”

Elspeth slumped back in her chair and put her head in her hand, desperately trying to come up with a retort.  But thinking back, on the recent problems at the College and Labyrinthian, even she had to admit that things were different now.  It wasn’t like Fellglow Keep, where Onmund fought quite naturally with her and Lydia.  Something had changed and she didn’t know what.  She just continued to stare at Trgve, shaking her head.

“You don’t want to lose him, I get that.”  Trygve assumed, rightly so, that Ancano and the Orb, the Arch-mage’s death, and the apparitions she’d seen at Labyrinthian were triggering a lot of unresolved fears and anxiety from the incident at Arcane University.  Lydia had mentioned once that she had lost someone very close to her.  Trygve worried, not only about how Elspeth fought when Onmund was around, but also of what might happen if she lost him and the time it would take for her to recover.  It was time they simply didn’t have.  “You need to let him go,” he said quietly, trying to be gentle.

“No!” Elspeth replied.  “You know, I never asked for your help.  You can strategize and you can heal, but whether or not Onmund comes along or I just see him between ruins and Dragon attacks is for us to decide.  You would do well to mind your own fucking business.”  She pursed her lips and glared at him, unwilling to reveal just how much his words cut into her heart.

Trygve ignored this and thought for a moment.  He was concerned that she was still treating this as simply a series of tasks to accomplish, one after the other with no consideration of what it actually meant to be Dragonborn.  That made sense at first, but things were changing.  There were hard choices ahead and sacrifices to be made.  “Elspeth, I don’t think you are fully grasping the responsibility you have.” Trygve spoke slowly and deliberately.  He wasn’t concerned about making her angrier, but he wanted to be understood.  “And that responsibility is to everyone.  Onmund is not more important than all of Skyrim or all of Tamriel for that matter.”

He is to me, she thought.  But she didn’t respond.  She simply folded her arms on the table and put her head down as tears welled up in her eyes.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he said.  “Tell me you’re not conflicted.”

“With respect to my feelings,” she said, lifting her head slightly and wiping her face with the back of her wrist.  “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Fair enough,” he said, letting out a frustrated sigh.  “It’s late.  If you’re hungry, eat something.  Otherwise, go to bed.  We have a very long ride tomorrow.”

*****

Elspeth expected the men would have it out in the morning, when Onmund was no longer sick.  Indeed, he was the first to rise and was eating when Elspeth and Trygve wandered out of their respective rooms.  Although his hostility was palpable, he did not say a word to either of them.  Trygve was impervious to this and simply went about eating and gathering supplies, but Elspeth felt terrible.  She wasn’t sure why Onmund wasn’t speaking to her and she was afraid to ask, even when they were alone.

The ride back to Winterhold was brutally uncomfortable.  No one spoke at all unless it was absolutely necessary and Elspeth found it difficult to sleep, for fear that Onmund’s plan all along was to stab Trygve in his tent while he slept.  There weren’t any storms in the mountains—a rarity for this time of year—so they took a shortcut that brought them back to Winterhold by way of the path near Saarthal.  Elspeth had never in her life been so grateful for clear skies.  A storm would have held them up and with any more time together, tensions would surely come to a head.  If Onmund wasn’t going to say anything, she was certain to explode.

The trouble in Winterhold was apparent from the moment they entered town.  Nearly the college’s entire population of apprentices filled the center of town, though there were no guards to be found anywhere.  Looking up, Elspeth couldn’t see the college itself, only some brightly lit clouds surrounding the buildings.  When they arrived at the top of the bridge, it was clear that the college was encased in some kind of barrier.  By the looks of it, the ward-like wall that had earlier blocked the entrance to the Hall of the Elements had simply expanded to encase the whole college.  Elspeth gasped a little when she saw it, but pushed the terror rising in her gut aside.

Tolfdir and many of the instructors were standing on the platform just outside the energy field and the fear on his face gave way to relief when he saw them approach.  “You survived!” he exclaimed.  “You have it then?”  Elspeth nodded and gestured to the staff in her hand.  “Good,” he continued.  “Let’s hope it’s as powerful as the Psijics believed it to be.   Ancano’s power is growing.  We haven’t been able to crack whatever magic he’s using.”

She nodded steadily as Tolfdir spoke and then looked around.  Faralda, Nirya, Arniel, and Drevis had joined them on the platform.  “Where is Mirabelle?” she asked.

“She…didn’t make it.” His voice cracked a little, but he continued.  “When it was clear we were going to have to fall back, she stayed behind and made sure the rest of us all were all right.”

From behind she could hear Onmund breath in sharply but she didn’t look back.  She narrowed her eyes at Tolfdir and gripped the staff tightly.  “Let’s get in there.”

“We’ll be right behind you,” Tolfdir said as he gestured for the instructors and others to follow.

Painful jolts of energy reverberated through her body as she attempted to pass through the barrier.  She did this twice, but it was too powerful, impenetrable until she cast the Staff of Magnus.  The magic from the staff, a powerful bolt of bluish light, brought the barrier down easily but doing so released a swarm of the magic anomalies like those they had battled earlier in the week.  Elspeth could hardly see past them, but she ignored them, letting the other mages handle them as she pushed forward to the Hall of Elements.

Ancano was there, just as she had left him, drawing power from the orb.  “You’ve come for me, have you?”  His voice was gravely, though for a brief moment Elspeth appreciated the way it broke up the dull humming emanating from the orb that set her teeth on edge **.** “You think I don’t know what you’re up to? You think I can’t destroy you?”

Elspeth could only imagine what the orb’s magic would do to her, to everyone, if she didn’t act.  She cast a powerful lightening spell, but it dissipated when it touched Ancano’s robes.   She cast the staff on him as well, aiming at his hands in an attempt to sever the link between him and the eye, but this did nothing.  Her face grew numb and her heart seized in her chest, and as she scrambled to think of what to try next her concentration was broken by Acano’s scorn.

“The power to unmake the world at my fingertips, and you think you can do anything about it?”  The Altmer’s voice always intimidated her, but never before had it sounded so menacing. “I am beyond your pathetic attempts at magic.  You cannot touch me. I am the Ayen and the Zyr, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End.”

The End.  The words rang in her head and she felt her body grow cold and she lost her train of thought.  This was a purge, like every other Thalmor purge before it.  Except Ancano didn’t intend to simply purge the college.  He meant to purge everything.  With her heart racing and every nerve in her body collapsing, the terror she felt in that moment was unlike anything she had experienced before.  Everything Xeri had taught her about controlling her fear vanished and all should do was stare at Ancano, her mouth agape.  This was not how it was supposed to end.  She was supposed to go out fighting, but she couldn’t even move.

Elspeth’s daze was interrupted when someone bumped into her from behind and gripped her elbow.  She expected it to be Trygve and was surprised to see Tolfdir.

“Spells have no effect,” Elspeth’s voice was shaking, “Neither does the staff!”

“Use the staff on the eye,” his tone was commanding and frightened but even in the face of imminent death and destruction, it still retained a modicum of calm reassurance.  For this she was grateful; otherwise, as she turned the staff on to the orb, she felt incredibly stupid for not thinking to do that first.   She cast the staff twice on the eye.  The first effect seemed to sever Ancano’s hold on it and with the second, the orb began to break apart, emitting a blinding turquoise light and filling the room with a blue and white haze so thick she couldn’t see anything.  She tried to cast the staff again to break up the haze, but it was drained. Through the persistent static and humming, she could hear Ancano heckling, “Come then! See what I can do.”

A hollow boom sounded through the room and as she stumbled toward him, she tripped over numerous bodies: Tolfdir, Faralda, someone else, maybe Nirya.  She didn’t know and she did not have time to figure it out.  Nor did she have time to wonder how the spell had missed her.  She found him by the door and after dropping the staff and drawing her sword, she lunged forward with a strong ward cast, prepared to take a hit but hopefully not before slicing his gut open.  The power he had gained, however, was too strong and the spell he cast was unlike any she felt, sending her staggering down the stone steps and weakening her enough to drop her sword.  She sat up and drew back a breath to shout, which is probably what she should have done in the first place, but before she could, she felt another spell hit her.  Every muscle in her body, even those in her face, was suddenly as resilient as netch jelly and all she could do was collapse and wait for the next blow.

Instead she heard a somewhat bewildered—but no less hostile—Ancano calling out, “Where’d you come fr—”   The sound that followed was a thud as the Thalmor’s body, his throat sliced clean open, fell beside her.  Elsepth, too weak to offer a more appropriate reaction, simply groaned and closed her eyes.  After a moment she tried, but could not muster the strength to sit up to see who survived and who had dealt Ancano his death blow.  Perhaps it was the continued effects of the spell or simply the weeks of violence and horror catching up to her, but all she could do was lie there and mutter,  “Gods have mercy on…,” her voice trailing off before she fell into a deep sleep.


	22. So Many Things I Would Have Done

**A/N: There’s a bit of mature material at the end, though nothing explicit.  Maybe PG-15?17?18?**

—————

_E,_   
_We need to talk._   
_~O._

_Dear Elspeth,_   
_Please come to the Arcanaeum at your earliest convenience.  The Psijic Order is here again and they wish to settle matters concerning the Eye of Magnus._   
_Kindest regards,  
_ _Tolfdir_

She looked back and forth to both notes, thinking she would rather crawl back under the covers than deal with either request—though her heart swelled with relief at seeing Tolfdir’s signature.  He was alive and hopefully the others were to. Neither invitation was more appealing than the other; it was merely a choice between heartbreak and the overwhelming stress that the Psijics tended to inspire in her.  But she had responsibilities, both personal and to the college, and she would see them through. The temptation to return to bed was strong, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again.  She would simply curl into a ball and cry.

On the table with the letters was a plate of food and a bottle of mead and on the chair, a clean robe.  Someone must have stopped by while she slept.  Onmund? She wanted to hope, but given the tension over the past couple of days it was more than likely not.  Brelyna perhaps, or even Collette.  For all her idiosyncrasies, the restoration instructor was a nurturer at heart.

She peeled her woolies off, trying to recall how she got back from the Hall of the Elements.  Her muscles still felt somewhat unsteady, though she wasn’t in any pain.  The clean robe hung loose from her weary frame and was quite possibly the most comfortable thing she had put on her body in a long time.  The food was simple, bread and cheese, and although she should have been famished, she found it difficult to eat more than a few bites.  Her jaw was stiff and the food seemed to fill her stomach like an iron paperweight **.** As she picked breadcrumbs off her robe, one at a time, she realized that she was procrastinating.  So, after pulling on her boots and smoothing down her hair and clothing, she left, opting to visit the Arcanaeum first.

Outside, she found Tolfdir at the top of the stairs.  “Elspeth my dear, I was just coming to find you.”

“I was just on my way to the Arcanaeum,” she said, forcing a weak smile.

“I trust you slept well,” he said, as they made their way downstairs.  “Brelyna said you were sleeping like a log when she stopped by earlier with some food.

“I don’t even remember going to bed,” she replied.

Tolfdir let out a gentle chuckle.  “Trygve carried you back to your room.  After he killed Ancano, he brought you to your room.  He wouldn’t let anyone bother you until he was sure you’d had some sleep.”

That Trygve had been the one to kill Ancano and tend to her when she was injured hardly surprise her, but it irritated her a bit, though she quickly pushed this out of her mind as she followed the old Nord across the eerily quiet campus and into the Hall of the Elements.  The orb was still floating, though the dull humming noise had quieted considerably.  Looking around, it was hard to believe that the room had recently been the scene of so much power and violence.

A meeting had been called and the College’s instructors were seated around the table with Urag and Quaranir.  Behind them, Trygve stood with two members of the Psijic Order she had never met.  The mages look restless and impatient, but most seemed pleased when Elspeth and Tolfdir arrived.  She took a seat next to Faralda at the end of the table and looked around, not quite certain what to make of it.  She wasn’t expecting anyone apart from Quaranir and perhaps the Psijic monk she had met in Mzulft.

There was a brief and somewhat awkward silence until Quaranir stood and cleared his throat.  He looked at Elspeth, sternly at first but soon his lips curved into a smile.  “We knew you would succeed.  Your victory over Ancano justifies our belief in you.  I don’t know if every one here agrees, but it is the firm opinion of the order that you have proven yourself more than worthy to guide the College of Winterhold.”

Elspeth opened her mouth to protest that she hadn’t, in fact, been victorious over Ancano.  But a slight murmur sounded and several instructors looked back toward Trygve who simply gestured back toward Elspeth.  As their gaze returned, she began to consider what it was that Quaranir was proposing—making her Arch-mage of the college.

She shook her head.  “Quaranir,” she began.  “With all due respect—”

“Elspeth, please, hear me out.”  He paused for a moment and pressed his fingertips to his mouth as he thought about what he wanted to say.  It was too soon to reveal the relationship between the Order and Evangeline’s resistance.  However, he believed, quite strongly, that Elspeth’s status as Dragonborn was somehow important to their goals, but until the dragon threat was dealt with, he was in no position to discuss this.  “Between the Civil War and the Dragons, Skyrim is vulnerable.  And at some point, the Thalmor will exploit this vulnerability and it is imperative that the college dispense with this quiet neutrality and assert its intentions to keep Skyrim safe.  At this point, it is merely a symbolic gesture.  But we must begin the process of assuring the Nords of Skyrim that magic is not the enemy.”

“Says who?” Faralda interjected “The Psijic Order has no authority here.  It has always been the position of the College to stay out of local politics.”  
“Faralda, I’m afraid this has gone well beyond local politics,” Tolfdir replied.

“And what about keeping Elspeth’s identity a secret?” Trygve piped up from the back.

“We’ll not be issuing any Imperial announcements.  And you have revealed her identity to several of the Jarls.  Sooner or later, it will get out.  We’ll just aim for later.” Quaranir was starting to become annoyed.  “

“Korir has met Elspeth and he still doing whatever he can to punish the college, restricting mages’ movements in town, and—” Drevis, normally quiet on any sort of local or political matter, actually sounded quiet concerned now.

“You think Arch-mage Breton Dragonborn here will be able to change Korir’s mind?” Phinis asked.  “You’re daft.”

“How is she going to run the college while she’s out hunting dragons anyway?”  It was Faralda again, her irritation increasing.  “No offense, Elspeth.”

“None taken,” she said, looking back to Quaranir.  The idea was preposterous and she hoped he would concede their authority on this one.

“Tolfdir, in his role as Master Wizard will assume the day-to-day administrative duties,” he explained.  “I think the college is capable of functioning without it’s Arch-mage on site.  And as her work as Dragonborn is revealed, it will foster goodwill toward the College and mages among the Nords of Skyrim.”  It pained Quaranir not to reveal right then and there that Elspeth was still the key to everything they needed to crush the Thalmor once and for all. But it simply wasn’t the right time.

“Goodwill, meh! It’s a fantasy,” Urag retorted.  “Ultimately it doesn’t matter what the Psijic Order thinks. We will put this to a vote.”

Elspeth nodded, though deep down she was dreading the prospect.  She had no idea how to lead a College, even if it was merely a symbolic gesture.  “Does it have to be unanimous?”

Drevis let out a hearty chuckle  “Oh my no, just a simple majority.  Trying to get a group of mages to come to a unanimous decision—“

“Let’s just say some of us wouldn’t live long enough to see it,” chirped Colette, looking intently at the Dunmer next to her.

“And that would be shame,” agreed Drevis, smiling as met her gaze and nudged her arm gently. There was a distinct tension between the two of them, something that would have made the rest of the group recoil had Urag not taken it upon himself to begin the vote.

“All right,” he said sternly.  “On the matter of promoting Elspeth to the position of Arch-mage, what say you, Drevis.”

“Yes,” replied Drevis, nodding at Elspeth.

“Colette?”

“I vote yes as well,” she said, a broad grin across her face.  “It’s about time we had a Breton Arch-mage.”

“Right,” said Urag gruffly.  “Faralda?”

“No,” she replied.  “Elspeth is a brilliant destruction mage.  But she is simply not ready for the role of Arch-mage.  Dragonborn or not, it’s a flimsy gesture at best.  We could do more to reach out to the Nord population ourselves.”

“You’ve been saying that for years, for as long as you’ve been angling for the Arch-mage title yourself,” interjected Phinis, ignoring Faralda’s defensive glare.  “I also vote no.”

“Very well,” said Urag as he made notes on the parchment in front of him.  “Sergius?”

The old enchanter ran a hand over his bald head and looked around a bit as if he wasn’t quite certain.  When his eyes fell to Elspeth he shook his head, averting his eyes almost apologetically back to Urag.  “No,” he said quietly.

“Tolfdir?” Urag already knew the answer; asking was simply a formality and the old Nord nodded.

The Orc cleared his throat and glanced over his parchment.  “Well I will break this tie by offering a vote in the affirmative.  I don’t share Quaranir’s optimism, but that doesn’t make it a terribly idea,” he explained, nodding deferentially in her direction.  “Congratulations Elspeth, you are now the Arch-mage of the College of Winterhold.”

Elspeth, who was rather shocked at Urag’s approval, let out a deep breath, wondering if there was something she should say, but after some mumbled congratulations, the instructors quickly excused themselves from the table until only the Psijic monks and Tolfdir remained.  Trygve also quietly hurried out and Urag returned to the business of cataloguing a shipment of old magic tomes and papers that had just arrived.

“Well,” she said as Quaranir moved to the chair closer to her.  “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t concern yourself with the minutiae of administrating the college.  Tolfdir will take care of those things,” the Altmer explained.  “You might also assign a proxy, but that is your prerogative.”

“Would Faralda make a good proxy?” she asked.  “In the event of an attack or if the college needed to ally with any anti-Thalmor resistance factions, she understands the current political situation better than anyone, not only in Skyrim but also between the different mage organizations.  And her school, destruction, represents a more practical application of magic.”  She stopped and looked intently at Tolfdir and Quaranir, hoping her assessment of Faralda had been correct and they felt their confidence in her was not misplaced.

“Well look at you,” said Tolfdir, gently patting Elspeth’s arm.  “Looks like the Psijics were correct.  Not that I had any doubts.”  He took a key from his robe pocket and handed it to Elspeth.  “This is the key to your new quarters.  If you like, I can have your things moved there immediately.”  He stood to leave.

“Thank you Tolfdir,” she said as she took the key from him and placed it in her pocked.  She paused to rub the growing tension in her neck a bit before looking back up at Quaranir.  “So, what do we do now?”

“Well you should just go about being Dragonborn.  I’m afraid we can’t help you much with that.  As for the Eye, well it has grown unstable.  I’m afraid it cannot remain here or else it will destroy your college and this world.  The Order will secure it for now.”  He furrowed his brow a little as he spoke. It was clear he was feeling a bit uneasy, though he tried not to let it show.  After shifting in his seat a bit he looked at Elspeth intently.

“When Ancano was screaming, he said something strange….” Her voice softened as she recalled how terrifying his ranting sounded at the time.  “The way he spoke, about unmaking the world.  It felt like he wanted to purge, well, everyone.”

He nodded slowly.  “There have been rumors…well, more than rumors I’m afraid, of a fringe element in the Thalmor senior ranks, powerful wizards with an agenda far more sinister than domination and war.  It’s theological in nature and even our Loremaster does not understand the full implications.  It seems, however, that you have taken out two members of this radical group.”

“Two?  But who else?” She paused and thought for a moment, nodding as the memory of Labyrinthian returned.  “Ancano sent someone to find us in Labyrinthian.

“Estormo,” he said.  “One of a small number of extremists the Psijic Order is investigating.”  Now that the other members of the college were gone, he wanted to add that this was just one of the many things the order was investigating and discuss their alliance with her mother’s resistance, but he held off.  For now that might be a bit overwhelming, a distraction she didn’t need.

“What do you want from me?” Elspeth pursed her lips and glowered at him.  She needed a straight answer, no more lingering questions and doubts about why the order wanted anything to do with her in the first place.

He thought for a moment before answering, though he intended to be as honest as possible.  “Elspeth, there is going to be a reckoning,” he began.  “And this should come as no surprise to you.  And there was a time when the order wanted you and others like you on the front lines of our campaign.  But we see now that your path is different from ours, though I expect they may cross again one day.”  He tilted his head and offered her a warm, reassuring smile.

His affectionate gesture surprised her a bit, but she smiled back and nodded.  “All right,” she replied.  “Now, if you will excuse me.”

“Of course,” Quaranir nodded good-bye as Elspeth stood and wandered out of the Arcanaeum.  She paused at the steps leading up to the Arch-mage’s quarters.  It was strange to think it was hers.  It would have been easy enough, slipping upstairs and spending the rest of the day and evening organizing and acting the part of the Arch-mage, putting off

Onmund’s request to speak.  But she knew she couldn’t do that.  She wandered outside and stepped into the courtyard.  A light snow had begun to fall and she paused to look up, letting the soft flakes dot her face.

“Elspeth!” A familiar voice called to her from across the yard.

Lydia! Elspeth jerked her head down and smiled as her friend hurried over and wrapped her in a tight, warm embrace.

“Oh my gods, Lydia,” she began as her housecarl held her at arms length.  “I have so much to tell you.”

“I’ll say,” said Lydia, turning to the side and pulling Elspeth across campus, “So you’re Arch-mage Ysmir, Dragon of the North, Thane of Whiterun.  How many other titles do you plan on picking up while you’re in Skyrim?  Harbinger of the Companions?”

“Vilkas would never approve.”  Elspeth snickered a little as they walked.  “Who told you anyway?”

“I ran into Trygve,” she replied.  “He’s in town now, getting supplies.”

“Supplies?”

“Yes,” she said.  “We have to leave tomorrow.  There’s a dragon in Eastmarch.  And one in the Rift.”

Elspeth didn’t respond; she simply sighed and nodded as they made their way up the stairs in the Hall of Attainment.

In her room, Lydia removed her boots and started to unbuckle her armor while Elspeth stretched on the bed.  “Arch-mage,” Lydia repeated.  “Is this part of the plan? Xeri’s visions?”

“Well,” Elspeth replied, “from the way that Quaranir spoke, it would seem that a strong Skyrim is integral to healing a broken empire, but Arch-mage?  That was the path of my mother.”

“True,” Lydia paused as she loosened and removed her the various components of her armor, laying them carefully on the trunk at the end of her bed.  “Though the path of your mother did eventually intersect and join with that of your father.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she said as she rolled over on to her back so that she was staring at the ceiling.

“What’s wrong?” Lydia asked as she started to remove the various layers of clothing and undergarments she wore under her armor.

“Oh let’s see, where do I begin?” she let out a frustrated sigh.  “Trygve stabbed Onmund in Labyrinthian to get him out of the way.  Onmund and I haven’t talked about it yet.  That’s where I was headed.”

“Oh no,” Lydia scowled and sat on the edge of the bed.  As she was the one who had asked Onmund to accompany Elspeth and Trygve while she was away, she felt terrible.  “Elspeth, I’m sorry.”

Elspeth sat up on her elbows and shook her apology away.  She flopped back down and let out a groan.  “Lydia, what should I do?”

“You should just—“ But she stopped.  Elspeth sounded miserable and Lydia wanted to help ease her mind but as decided on her recent journey, she intended to stop meddling in her friend’s affairs. “This is something you and Onmund need to work out.”  She patted her friend’s arm and got up again, hoping she hadn’t upset Elspeth by not offering any advice or guidance.  When she glanced back, the Breton was just lying there quietly, her expression impossible to read.  She pulled her leggings and her top off and opened her closet to find a robe and a towel.  If they were headed out tomorrow, she was going to soak in one of the college’s large tubs, possibly for the entire evening.

“Oh my gods,” Elspeth exclaimed, her mouth agape when she saw Lydia’s bare back.  Running from the top of her neck to the small of her back were several deep scratch wounds.  “Lydia, what happened to your back?”

Lydia’s eyes widened and she quickly pulled a robe over her shoulders and tied it in the front.  “Well…”

“Were you attacked by a saber cat or something?”

“In a way…yes.”

“Your armor must be shredded,” Elspeth said as she leaned over and reached for Lydia’s cuirass.  “I’ll have Onmund take a look at it.”  For a moment, she was pleased to have something that she could use to break up the inevitable tension, though she also supposed she had a bit of nerve asking him for a favor.  She picked up the armor, frowning as she inspected it.  It was a little scuffed, but no more than usual.  “Lydia,” she said slowly, “were you naked when you were attacked?”

Lydia nodded uncomfortably as Elspeth continued to furrow her brow.  “Oh Elspeth,” she said, after a long silence.  “Please tell me I don’t have to explain this to you.”

“Goodness no,” she said.  “I just have some rather… _inappropriate_ questions.”

The Nord let out a light chuckle, “I see.  Well, what do you want to know?”

By now Elspeth had placed the armor back on the trunk and was staring at her hands, which were balled into fists, with her index fingers out and slightly curled.  “Well, were there…ah…”

“Yes.”

“And did it…?”

“Quite a bit.  Well, only at first.”

Elspeth cringed and crossed her legs while Lydia turned bright red and nodded.

“Are you in love with him?”

Lydia’s eyes widened a bit.  She had not really expected this question.  “No,” she said quietly.  “I’m sort of…well, fond of him I guess.  But it’s really not like that.”  She studied Elspeth who was nodding along, still looking sort of bewildered.  “Are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?” Elspeth looked back up at her friend, who looked sort of flustered.

Lydia shrugged and let out a sigh of relief.  “Anyway, I need a bath and you need to go talk to Onmund.”  She paused for a moment and then opted not to comment on them staying up all night.  She wrapped one arm around Elspeth’s shoulder and gave her a peck on the cheek.  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

*****

As she made her up way up the stairs, Elspeth tried to figure out what she wanted to say, that she was sorry, that Trygve was a milk-drinking prat, and that she would do whatever she could to make it up to him.  As long as it could happen within the next twelve hours or so because they were leaving in the morning.  And who knew when she would be back in Winterhold again, or if Onmund would bother returning to Whiterun?

She knocked softly on the door and waited, wondering if there was anything in her life before this she dreaded as much as the conversation she was about to have.  When he called out for her to enter, she stepped inside and closed the door by leaning against it.

A few awkward moments went by as Onmund stood up from the bed and began putting the books he was studying away, along with several scrolls and various pieces of parchment, taking the time to make sure each thing was in its proper place.  Elspeth was fairly certain that this need for organization, which was completely out of character for him, was merely a ruse, delaying their conversation and the fall out of sadness and regret they inevitably both would share.

She crossed the room to a chair, though taking a seat suddenly seemed entirely too presumptuous.  Gods, she hated feeling like this.  Pausing by the shelf where he was sorting through the last of his piles, she sucked in a breath as she prepared to say something—anything—to break the awkward silence.  “Onmund, I—”

At the sound of her gasp, he turned and pulled her close, catching her open mouth with his and interrupting her with a quick, biting kiss.  “I don’t want to talk,” he whispered harshly, dropping his mouth and biting along the curve of her neck.

To say she was surprised at this turn would be an understatement and she was not displeased.  She groaned softly in his ear as he started tugging at her belt.  Within a few moments he had her robe off and was grabbing the back of her neck, roughly pressing his lips to her mouth, his tongue desperately seeking hers. It was aggressive and raw, a far cry from the gentle way he usually touched her **.**   She shuddered with nervous anticipation.  Onmund was often assertive, comfortably taking control as they rolled around in the sheets.  But this was different; it was exciting but also a little overwhelming.

When he pulled away to catch his breath, he looked her over, his normal look of tenderness replaced with something far more intense, almost severe.  But before she could react, he gripped the top of her arms and slammed her against the wall.  When she gasped, Onmund panicked a bit.  Everything hinged on this moment.  If he’d frightened her, he would never forgive himself.  And if she laughed his behavior off as strange, he would be humiliated.  Again.

Elspeth swallowed as her excitement began to outweigh her anxiety.  She bit her bottom lip and closed her eyes, letting him know that she was willing.  He smirked as he yanked his own clothes off and pushed up against her, kissing her roughly as he groped her bottom and pulled her legs up so that they straddled his hips.  Lifting her up was almost effortless and he grinned inwardly, the smithing in Whiterun had paid off.

Pinned between his body and the wall, it took Elspeth a moment to ease into the sudden feeling of powerlessness that enveloped her.  But when she let finally let herself go, she was astonished by how much she enjoyed it.  The strength of his grip, the roughness of his mouth, the nips along her neck sharp enough to leave marks—the desperation she’d felt from him earlier was now hers.  It wasn’t the tender passion they always shared that she longed for right now.  She wanted—no, needed him to dominate her, to take her with everything he had and shag her stupid.

“Onmund” she rasped softly against his ear as he lifted her up, hooking her thigh with his elbow and sliding into her with one quick motion.  Instinct kicked in and she tried to arch her back, but with her movement hindered all she could do was cry out and dig her nails into his shoulders as he thrust into her.  The tenor of her cries expressed the intermingling of pleasure and pain, urging him on, shattering all the humiliation and shame he felt as he pounded into her.

She let out a strangled sound, smacking her head back against the wall, which would have hurt had it not been for the thick drape.  Rolling her head up, she noticed the tip of the tapestry’s triangle symbol was just above her head.  A twinge of embarrassment fluttered in her chest.  Sweet Julianos, she prayed, let this not be an affront to—the thought was abruptly broken, first by a sudden tightening deep in her abdomen and then a shuddering so intense it hurt.  She grabbed a nearby shelf to steady herself, knocking empty potion bottles and a couple of books to the floor, as she pleaded with him for more, not stopping until she was completely spent, her body weary and limp against his.

With each thrust, the feelings of inadequacy he’d been harboring began to diminish.  Elspeth was so powerful and more often than not he felt weak and undeserving of her.  Dominating her like this made him feel strong but hearing her beg for it pushed him right over the edge.  His release, along with the usual muscle quivering and euphoria, brought a confidence unlike anything he’d felt before.  He let out a deep breath and stepped back, catching her elbow as she awkwardly slid down the wall.  They staggered across the room, bodies still trembling, legs wobbling, and they crawled into bed.

Elspeth was spent and sore, and lay back and closed her eyes as she caught her breath.  Onmund sidled up next to her and slid his hand over hip, stomach and breasts, trailing his fingers lightly along her neck and pulling her chin gently toward him, he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.

She wasn’t sure what to make of this gesture. All she wanted to do was curl up in his arms and sleep but morning meant packing up and leaving, not knowing for sure if they had actually resolved anything or if they ever would.  She rolled over on her side and propped her head in her hand.  “Onmund,” she said, swallowing against the lump in her throat.  “We still have to talk.”

“Can’t we do it tomorrow,” he asked wearily. “Over a late breakfast?”

She shook her head sadly.  “No…we’re leaving.  There are dragons in Eastmarch.  And the Rift.”

He didn’t even attempt to hide the disappointment and frustration he felt, and he rolled on to his back, rubbing his forehead for a few moments before speaking.  “And Trygve? Is he going with you?”

“Yes,” she whispered, looking around awkwardly so she wouldn’t have to see his reaction.  It was uncomfortably quiet for a few moments before she continued.  “I’m sorry,” she said finally.  “I…I’m just…sorry.”  It was completely inadequate, but she was at a loss for anything other than an awkward, albeit sincere, apology.

“You’re not getting rid of him? Even after—” Deep down, he wasn’t actually surprised.  But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I don’t actually want him along,” she interjected, trying not to sound defensive.  Onmund had every right to confront her on this.  “And it’s not like I approve of what he did.  But I’ve got to fight dragons and I can’t….” she let out a frustrated sigh.  How could she tell him explain to him that she _needed_ Trygve, that for the moment his importance as a scout and a healer outweighed Onmund’s presence in her life in general?  “I can’t do it alone.”

“I could come with you,” his voice trembled as he spoke, fearing such an offer was futile at best.

Tears filled her eyes as she shook her head.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “It’s….” her voice trailed off as she thought back to her conversation with Trygve in Morthal.  She was loath to admit it, but he had been right about everything.

“You don’t need me?” he asked, though it was more an assertion than a question.  “Or am I just not strong enough?”

She needed him to live, but that seemed an inappropriate response. “It doesn’t matter,” she replied.  “You could be ten times as strong as Farkas and more powerful than all the pyromancers on this side of the White River.  But I’ll never stop looking back for you.  And that could kill me.”

He turned and glowered at her, wanting to protest.  But what could he possibly say to that?  “Very well,” he said.

“Are we…is this….” She couldn’t bring herself to ask.  She didn’t want to lose him, but then what could she possibly offer him now?

He looked at her intently, his eyes filled with sadness and confusion.  What happened in Labyrinthian wasn’t her fault.  And yet it changed everything.  Onmund wasn’t sure if it had created a schism or simply revealed an irresolvable conflict between them.  One thing, of which he was certain, however, was that they needed more than a few hours to figure it out.  It seemed to be a pattern with them.  How long would it be before they could resolve something without the threat of dragons and intrusive companions hanging over them?  Weeks? Months? What if it was years?

“I don’t know,” he said eventually.  “I just don’t know.”

——————–

Post Script: About that ship.  If you go to either Drevis or Collette’s page, you’ll see an exchange between them where Drevis is rather unpleasant toward her.  After I wrote out that exchange, I went back and saw that.  Then I worked backwards and incorporated their in-game conversation into my headcanon.  But no, I won’t subject you to that.

Post Post Script: About that other ship.  No, you saw it coming.

  


 


	23. What Happens in Riften, Stays in Riften

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #sorrynotsorry

_You know you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down_   
_And you can’t keep draggin’ that dead weight around._   
_If there ain’t all that much to lug around,_   
_Better run like hell when you hit the ground._   
_~Ok Go, “This too Shall Pass”_

“If my Lydia would promise to let J’zargo take her to Senchal someday, it would be most pleasing to J’zargo, yes?”

“Yes, I’m sure Elswyer would welcome me with open arms.”

“But Nords are exotic, after my Lydia spreads a some coin around and shows a little skin—“

“Oh…just a little skin?”

“As much as you wish.” J’zargo grinned, thinking back to the warm sands of his homeland, as he and Lydia finished setting up camp for the evening.

Lydia snorted as she pictured herself approaching Balgruuf and resigning her post to embark upon a holiday to the jungles and beaches of southern Elswyer, where she would eat sweet tropical fruit and grilled fish caught spearfishing in the warm waters of the Topal Sea. The look she imagined on the Jarl’s face both horrified and amused her and she would be lying if she said she didn’t find the notion of renouncing her position with such reckless abandon somewhat appealing.

Upon leaving Winterhold, she expected that she would be balancing her increasing distress over Elspeth and Trygve against the irritability that J’zargo’s arrogance and impertinence would inevitably inspire.   She thought back to their task in Dawnstar, where she had to constantly rein him in, lest he run amok, killing priests for Daedric artifacts or raiding sacred ruins. But for the most part, he just told stories of his life in Elswyr, most of which were rather mundane. And yet, it was so fascinating and so unlike anything she would ever experience in Skyrim that she found herself wondering if perhaps she longed to escape, to pursue the life of adventure she wanted in her youth, away from the stress and anxiety that a life of dutytended to impose.

“All right,” she said finally, “when the dragon crisis is over and when Elspeth has—“ she paused, certain that the Khajiit mage did not need to know anything of Elspeth’s _destiny_ , “when Elspeth no longer needs me.”

“Elspeth will always need you.”

“Yes,” she sighed, her tone dropping a bit. “And the duties of the housecarl are lifelong—more or less.” She looked away from him as she sat back on a log just outside their tent and started to rummage through her satchel for some food. She wasn’t particularly hungry, but she needed a distraction, lest her face reveal the distress that her duties inspired these days. She pulled out some dried meat and some rolls she picked up in Kynesgrove.   When she looked up to offer some to J’zargo, he was watching her intently **,** as if he was a little concerned.

“What?” she asked, forcing a light chuckle. She wanted him to believe that his curious and concerned looks did little more than amuse her.

He was quiet for a moment, studying her as he moved some kindling and logs around before igniting them with a spell. When the fire was burning steadily **,** he scooted back and joined her on her log. “My Lydia seems troubled,” he replied. “And this is troubling to J’zargo.”

“Oh really?” she narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him.

“J’zargo is offended that you would regard this concern with such surprise.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied. She was unaccustomed to this kind of concern from him, but she had no reason to think he was being disingenuous.

“What is it?” he asked.

Lydia paused for a moment, thinking about what she wanted to say. She never intended to confide in him, but as she found herself traveling closer to the Rift, on a quest more like those of her early days with Elspeth, she felt her burdens shift from the stress of keeping Elspeth out of trouble to the guilt of not missing her friend and being relieved at having some respite from her duties.

“It’s just not what I expected it to be,” she said finally. “I always thought when Balgruuf finally appointed a thane, a real thane, they would be someone larger than life, a hero.”

“And the Dragonborn is not those things? She is very powerful, no? Chosen by the gods?”

“True, but she’s not quite there yet. I’ve known her—well, I’ve known _about_ her—for a long time. But I never thought I would be her housecarl.”

“You care about her very much. Is it not wonderful to be in the service of one you love?”

“Yes,” she said. And no, she thought. “It’s just….” Lydia had no idea why things were so difficult all of a sudden. Before Elspeth was dragonborn, Lydia loved traveling with her. It felt like a partnership. It was different now and Lydia understood that it had to be, but she wasn’t sure what was so troubling—that they were no longer equals or that Elspeth still treated her as one, that she wasn’t fully accepting of her new station, that her expectations of Lydia were still rooted in friendship and maybe they shouldn’t be. “Sometimes I don’t know if I can be a good friend and a good housecarl.”

“This one is confused. Doesn’t your willingness to lay down your life make you a good friend”

“I suppose, but…” She stopped for a moment and considered the wisdom in confiding things to J’zargo. He wasn’t inclined to gossip; that seemed to be the purview Brelyna and Enthir **—** of all people. J’zargo would no doubt scold her for being ridiculous and simply remind her of her duty. Perhaps that was all she needed, a swift kick in the behind. “It’s just exhausting. I have to keep her safe—that’s actually the easy part as she’s more than capable of defending herself. But I also want to make her happy.”

“Happy?” J’zargo looked bewildered for a moment. “Why?”

Lydia was taken aback, not expecting that this is something she would need to explain. “Well, she’s my friend, why wouldn’t I want her to be happy?”

“Ah…but that is not what my Lydia said. You said you wish to _make_ her happy. This is a different thing entirely.”

“I….” She paused and let out a deep breath. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice was flat as if she were resigning herself to something. But after a few moments she explained. “I feel like I owe it to her, I guess.”

“But why on Nirn do you _owe_ someone else happiness?” It was baffling to J’zargo that someone would expend so much energy on another person’s happiness, when it was clearly at the expense of her own.

“I feel…guilty,” she admitted.

“Guilty? Lydia, truly the inner emotional turmoil of the housecarl is a sight to behold. J’zargo is intrigued. But why do you feel guilty? Lydia?”

By now Lydia wasn’t even looking at J’zargo. She wasn’t ignoring him, but she was playing with her hair, her eyes fixed on one of her braids, inspecting it as if there was something new about it. She pushed all her hair out of her face and leaned forward, her arms resting on her bent knees. “Because I used to hate her.” Lydia had most certainly never intended to confess this but she didn’t know how to explain it otherwise. “I know how terrible that sounds.”

“Not to J’zargo, but J’zargo despises everyone before he likes them.” He smirked a little and observed her quietly until she turned back to him. “But this troubles my Lydia.”

“It’s a long story,” she said.

“J’zargo has no other plans this evening.”

“All right,” she laughed. Lydia thought for a moment, not quite certain where or how to begin. There wasn’t anything particularly complicated about the story, it just seemed to go back a long time. Before Elspeth arrived, she had thought about it a lot, reflecting on her feelings, though she never intended to tell anyone. She’d never even told Hrongar and she told him almost everything. “I always wanted a sister,” she began. “My mother always said her sister was her best friend. Growing up, they did everything together. She was heartbroken when Runa left, but she understood why.”

Lydia stopped here. The story behind Runa’s departure from Whiterun and then from Skyrim was fraught with sadness and not really hers to tell. “Runa was a priestess of Talos and she went to study in Imperial City. After the war she refused to renounce and went into hiding with some Blades and others fleeing the Thalmor. We didn’t hear from her for a long time. When she finally wrote, she told us she was taking care of a young girl, the daughter of some people who helped her escape after the war. She visited once. I don’t recall ever seeing my mother as happy as she was then.

“There was supposed to be more visits, and Runa was meant to bring Elspeth along too. But it wasn’t until after my mother died that I saw her again. It was such a relief to see her and I assumed she would stay this time. I was her family after all.” She paused again, swallowing against a dull ache growing in her throat as feelings of guilt and regret washed over her. She looked up, worried that she was boring poor J’zargo to death, but he was still listening carefully, his countenance unchanged.

“But no, she had to return to Bruma. Elspeth needed her.” Her voice was shaking now and tears filled her eyes. “You have to understand. The illness that had taken my mother…almost everyone in Whiterun was afflicted. I was not of age yet, but I was too old for the orphanage but there was no place for me to go. Runa arranged for friends to take care of me, but I just didn’t understand why she wouldn’t stay. I felt abandoned I guess and I grew bitter. She wrote and I ignored the letters.”  
“What changed?” he asked.

“Well,” she said after wiping her eyes and taking a quick drink from her water skin, “I noticed that when people started getting better, they all came by to see me. They paid their respects o my mother and brought food and gifts. Then as time went on, I decided to write to my aunt—I was still angry, but I felt I owed her a letter. I read the ones she sent. There was one, she talked about Xeri, Elspeth’s mentor, and her grueling training regimen. Runa was frustrated and worried about her young charge. And it occurred to me that I had all these people in Whiterun looking out for me and Elspeth only had my aunt.”

Lydia paused for a moment, wondering how much of Elspeth’s childhood she should reveal. “See the thing you have to understand about Xeri is that she’s absolutely insane. She creates warriors and she wanted Elspeth to be hard and cold, completely detached and ruthless.”

“Ha!” For some reason J’zargo found this highly amusing. “Elspeth is a skilled warrior, but hardened…no. J’zargo does not agree.”

Lydia glared at him. “No, she isn’t and that’s because of my aunt’s influence.” There was more she wanted to explain about Runa’s constant struggle against Xeri’s machinations—which bordered on abusive at times—but that wasn’t really the point. “My aunt wanted Elspeth to have something in her life other than fighting. She wanted her to experience life with affection and friendship. And so do I.” By now her face had softened and she looked back at J’zargo,

“And don’t you deserve something in your life other than sacrifice and devotion?”

“I’m a housecarl in Jarl Balgruuf’s court. Devotion and sacrifice are expected. I’m just doing my duty.”

“And did the Jarl personally charge you with getting Elspeth and Onmund into bed?”

“Wait, what!?” Lydia was flustered. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you did for them. Inviting Onmund to your home was very generous. You’ve been a good friend,” he said. “But now it is time to be a housecarl. Unless you really think the Jarl expects you to see Elspeth bedded consistently.”

“No!” Lydia was horrified, but laughing nonetheless. “Balgruuf has no interest in who Elspeth is sleeping with. None at all. No.”

J’zargo snickered a little and let out a sigh. “How much does my Lydia know about Khajiit customs?”

Lydia thought for a moment and then looked a bit sheepish. “I’m sorry…I don’t know much at all.” She’d read the various pocket guides of the empire and those books were not terribly detailed. After that, it never occurred to her seek out more information.

“The Khajiit have a great many warriors, fierce and brave. But we are not interested in self-reflection. Some say our minds are not engineered for it. That is debatable. Yet we simply do what we do, and let the world be damned.” J’zargo shifted around on the log and studied Lydia’s reactions. She was intrigued; that much was certain. “My Lydia, she needs to take a lesson or two from the _Ahzirr Traajijazeri_.”

“What is that?”

“It’s the manifesto from the Renrijra Krin, freedom fighters, rebels, ah, criminal scum mostly.” At this Lydia looked absolutely appalled, but J’zargo quickly shook his head. “They had two tenets I believe all warriors should adhere to.” He looked up again to see if she was still horrified, but her face had softened a bit. “Vaba Do’Shurh’do.”

“Vaba Do’Shurh’do?”

“It is good to be brave,” he explained. “And my Lydia is nothing if not brave. And loyal.”

“Thank you,” she said, blushing a little.”

“And, more importantly, Fusozay Var Var.”

“Fusozay Var Var?”

“Enjoy life, for it is too short. And life in the service of others tends to be short.” He grinned and poked the fire a little with a stick. “My Lydia would find the rest of the Renrijra Krin’s tenetsappalling. Of this, J’zargo has no doubt. But those are good words to live by.”

“And that is how J’zargo lives,” she replied, her tone both teasing and affirming.

“More or less.”

“Fusozay Var Var,” she repeated quietly. Though such a carefree existence would never be hers, she rather liked the sound of that.

*****

Arriving in Riften was uneventful. Trygve had lent his key and Honeyside opened from outside the city. Being able to bypass the guard eased Lydia’s mind considerably. As a member of the College and in the company of a court housecarl, J’zargo should have had no trouble entering the city. But the guards, who were simply oafish at times, often liked to cause problems and Lydia was in no mood to deal with them this evening.

Iona greeted them and though surprised, she was not displeased to have company. Her demeanor was no less austere than it had been before, but she readily welcomed them inside and offered them some mead. After a brief exchange of stories, of Elspeth being Dragonborn and Trygve associating himself with Balgruuf’s court, and of Iona spending time with Runa, they retired, with Lydia taking Trygve’s room and J’zargo the small storage room next to Iona’s that also held a small bed.

Lydia slept so soundly that night she was reluctant to get out of bed the following morning. But she was still on duty and she needed to ask the Jarl about dragon sightings. Groaning, she rolled out of bed and put her clothes on slowly. She found Iona in the kitchen, looking tightlipped and focused as she prepared food: scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, and cured meat.   There was also a fresh loaf of bread, honey, butter, and a bottle of mead on the table.

“Good morning,” said Lydia, glancing over the spread. “Are you expecting more people?”

Iona looked up from the eggs she was cooking and offered a courteous, yet stern nod. “Oh no,” she said, looking around. “I was a little enthusiastic I guess, and perhaps I went a little overboard. Please, help yourself to the bread and mead, while I prepare your plate.”

The other Nord could not have appeared less enthusiastic if she tried, but Lydia didn’t dwell on this and she poured herself a tankard of mead and ripped a large chunk of bread from the loaf, which she ate slowly as she wandered around, taking her first real look at Trygve’s house since they had arrived. Observing the carefully organized dishes on the shelves, the spotless pantry, and the books in the sitting room, all of which were organized, not only alphabetically but also by genre, Lydia chuckled, thinking that there was no one else in all of Skyrim, nay Nirn, to whom this house could belong. There was neither a bit of clutter nor a speck of dust anywhere and she instinctively clutched her tankard close to her chest, as if Trygve were there watching, so if it were to spill, the liquid would hit her tunic rather than the floor or the books.

“The food is ready!” Iona interrupted Lydia’s thoughts and after quickly inspecting the floor around her for crumbs, she joined the other housecarl at the table.

“This looks lovely, thank you,” she said before tucking into her eggs.

“It’s a pleasure,” she replied. “I hardly ever have the opportunity to cook for other people.”

“Trygve doesn’t have guests often?”

Iona chuckled and then coughed, as if to cover the laugh up. “No,” she said, “We’re not here very often and well, guests are disorderly and Trygve likes his space to be well ordered. Though I suppose you know that by now.”

“Indeed,” she replied after washing some cured meat down with her mead. She studied Iona some more. The other Nord’s facehad softened somewhat though she still sat rather stiffly. “Have you known him long?” she asked.

Iona seemed a bit surprised by the question, but she simply smiled and nodded. “For most of my life,” she said. “We met when I was young. His mother was the healer in Riften and everyone knew her. And I once was betrothed to his best friend.”

“Trygve has a best friend?” Lydia was shocked and completely missed that Iona was speaking of something in the past, and her response should have been tempered by some sensitivity.

Iona simply raised her eyes at this comment and turned back to her food. “Jory died several years ago,” she said, her tone lowered a bit.

“Oh I am so sorry.” Lydia was mortified. “I…I didn’t know and…” Her voice trailed off as she was left silent, embarrassed by her own insensitivity.

At this Iona managed a slight, but sincere, smile. “I can’t blame you. It isn’t something that Trygve likes to talk about.”

Lydia merely nodded and poked at her food a bit before taking a long drink of mead and ruminating a bit. Trygve had always sort of baffled her and this new information gave her a bit of insight into his aloof nature. But at the same time it raised other questions—ones she had no intention of asking. And yet she wondered; what was he like before his friend died?

She chewed on her lip a little, wondering how much she could inquire without being rude. Naturally, she was curious about him; however, she also wanted some guidance and Iona was so focused and efficient. If anyone could help, it would be her.

“Do you ever find it difficult—being a housecarl to someone who was, or rather is, your friend?” she asked, keeping her tone low so that the question would not seem intrusive.

But as with most things, Iona was unfazed. “No,” she said, but as she drew her tankard up to her mouth she appeared to think about the question a bit. “He doesn’t actually expect much by way of deference. But Trygve’s always had an air of formality about him. I just follow his lead.”

At this Lydia nodded; she understood completely. Elspeth wasn’t exactly well versed in etiquette and protocol. Indeed, that was one of the reasons Runa brought Lydia into the fold in the first place, but this was before all the Dragonborn business. Once again, the thought of going forward with Elspeth on her own was simply daunting and she found herself immensely grateful for his companionship. “He’s very rigid at times. Balgruuf always tells me I’m too uptight about things, but Trygve he’s something else.”

Iona frowned skeptically. “You don’t strike me as uptight, not with the way you were carrying on with that cat last night.”

“Carrying on? Excuse me?” She couldn’t tell by Iona’s tone if her comment was meant to criticize or if it was simply an observation. Recalling the previous night, she couldn’t think of anything inappropriate that had been said. They had arrived weary but cheerful as J’zargo had been telling her an amusing story of his last visit to the Rift when they arrived at Breezehome. “I think you are mistaken….” But Lydia’s voice trailed off, as she wasn’t quite sure what the other housecarl’s comment was meant to imply.

“It’s just very…well, casual I suppose. And it’s not a bad thing. It’s just different.” Iona shrugged placed her tankard on the table.

Lydia pursed her lips, determined not to take Iona’s observations as insults. After all, nothing she said was untrue. And Lydia knew she was not less serious and disciplined than other housecarls. It was only recently that she had begun to lose confidence. Otherwise, she was highly skilled, devoted, and resolute. And that was all that mattered, at least she hoped.   She sighed inwardly; now was not the time to be insecure.

They finished their food silently, until Lydia realized she had not seen J’zargo yet.

“Did J’zargo leave already?”

Iona shook her head as she began to clear the table. “I offered to walk him down to the Ratway, just to keep people out of his hair. Or fur, I suppose.”

“That is quite helpful, thank you.” Lydia was relieved; she needed to avoid the Ratway and she was pleased she wouldn’t have to explain why.

“He left to see someone in the caravan,” Iona continued, gesturing to the back door. “He said he would be back shortly.”

Lydia nodded and moved to help clear the table, but Iona shook her head and quickly stacked all the dishes and flatware, taking them in one pile to the basin. Lydia decided she needed to collect her thoughts a bit before starting her errands and excused herself to the porch.

“My Lydia!” J’zargo was sitting just outside the door, stark naked, with his legs propped up on the rail.

“J’zargo!” The Nord’s tankard clattered to the ground as she threw her hands over her eyes. “Why are you naked?”

“I went for a swim in the lake and I didn’t have a towel so I am just airing out a bit,” he explained, taking his robe from the back of the chair and casually draping it across his midsection. “You can look now.”

She peered slowly through her fingertips before bringing her hands away from her face, but as she knelt to pick up her cup she caught a glimpse of the curve of his bare backside against the edge of the chair. Groaning inwardly, and blushing furiously, she took a deep breath and let it out before standing and looking around awkwardly. Though his privates were covered, Lydia was still rather uncomfortable looking at his bare chest—which was broader than she imagined—and arms, which flexed as he stretched and put his hands behind his head, smirking the whole time.

She scowled, though she wasn’t angry, just a little flustered. “I’ll let Iona know you’ll be in when you’re dry. And dressed!” She turned back inside quickly, leaving the Khajiit chucking quietly to himself.

*****

Lydia’s first order of business was at Mistveil Keep. Anticipating another cold reception, she intended to find Anuriel, inquire about any dragon sightings in the hold, and leave. To her surprise, however, Jarl Laila was more than welcoming and invited her to sit. Not only had she forgiven Balgruuf for appropriating Trygve into his court, she seemed honored that her Thane—of all the Thanes in all the holds—was in the service of the legendary Dragonborn.

Of course, she shouldn’t have been surprised and though she was happy that the tensions between the Jarls seemed to be abating for a bit, there was much to discuss and for a while, Lydia felt as though she was acting more as an ambassador than a housecarl. There were so many questions. And the Laila’s own housecarl, Unmid Snow-Shod, wanted to know all about the attack on the western watchtower, right down to the last detail. He was especially concerned about Trygve’s role in the whole affair, and Lydia began to wonder if there was some rivalry between the two men.

After two hours of questions and storytelling, Lydia was finally able to extract herself from the conversation. She left the keep, letting out a deep breath as the heavy door closed behind her. Despite Laila’s positive reception and the court’s unadulterated enthusiasm, Lydia felt out of sorts. The excitement and reverence around the Dragonborn, the way they looked at her, the expectation that there was no greater honor when all she could think was there was no greater responsibility was simply exhausting.

Down in the market, she mulled over all the things she had to do before they left. She needed to replenish their supplies: food, arrows, potions. And, she should probably send a letter to Balgruuf, to apprise him of their locations and business to date. That would mean finding a courier—and a competent one at that.

But she didn’t want to do any of it. She wanted a break, a long break where she didn’t have the weight of someone else’s world on her shoulders. As she pondered what to do first, she scanned the market, letting her gaze rest on the meadery and then the Bee and the Barb.

If she could not escape to the warm sands of Senchal, she could at least take the day off and resume her duties tomorrow. She strode over to the tavern with a renewed spontaneity and then laughed at the absurdity of it all, as if there was anything unusual about a Nord putting their obligations off for a few hours to enjoy some mead-soaked revelry.

And Lydia was nothing if not a true Nord.

“Fusozay var var,” she muttered under her breath and as she entered the building, thought about what a shame it was that Nords, with their shared love of revelry and brawling, were not more accepting of Khajiit. Glancing about the place, she wondered if Elspeth’s friend was here. What was his name, she wondered. Marcus? Mercury? At this point she would enjoy his attention. And with a drink or two, she might entertain his advances.

“Marcurio?” Keerava corrected when Lydia, now three tankards of mead in, asked after the smug Imperial. “I haven’t seen his ugly mug in weeks.”

“Oh,” she thought, trying to hide her disappointment, though it was probably just as well. She looked around again. It was relatively early in the afternoon and still rather quiet. She thought about the Bannered Mare and wondered if the excitement over the dragon attack and the Dragonborn had died down. Knowing Whiterun as she did, it wasn’t likely. “Do you have anything stronger?” she asked suddenly.

Keerava paused for a moment—as if she might protest this request—but only smirked a little. “I’ll send Talen-Jei over to mix you something.”

“Thank you!” While she waited, her thoughts wandered. She realized that not a single person in the entire tavern knew her. Strangely she found the notion rather comforting, which was unlike her. Generally, she preferred company.

From Telen-Jei she ordered a Velvet LeChance and then another, and recalled their last visit, when she had taken her grandmother’s name as an alias. She thought about how she could be whoever she wanted here, posing as a simple adventurer on her way to Forelhost. There was something exciting about that idea and as she sipped on her drink, she entertained fantasies of the yarns she could spin. By her third drink, she decided that should someone approach, she would be Briane, a scholarly adventurer on her way to Rkund to collect and study Dwemer artifacts. She would even drop Calcelmo’s name in there for good measure.

Tossing back the last of her drink, she giggled a little and contemplated another, though she was clearly quite intoxicated. Perhaps, she thought, it would be best to switch to water and order some food. Indeed, a nice venison stew with a loaf of fresh bread and honey-butter was exactly what she needed. Before she could wave Keerava down, however, she was yanked from her stool.

“Do…I…know you,” she slurred, squinting as she tried to remember if she had ever seen this woman, a seething, raven-haired beauty, before.

“You milk-drinking fuck!” The woman drew her arm back and smashed her fist into Lydia’s face. Too drunk to steady herself and with her head spinning, she staggered forward as the other woman punched her in the gut. Within seconds, she was on the ground, her face being pummeled by the woman straddling her waist and screaming. “This is for Vipir! And Rune! Where’s your fucking mage friend now?”

Vipir? Lydia tried to open her eyes and look up, but all she could do was cough and gag as the other woman continued to bash her face. Her head spun as the pain from the beating mingled with the dizziness of being intoxicated. Blood started trickling down her throat and her visual field began to grow dark when she heard more shouting in the distance. Several people dragged the woman away, kicking and screaming and another cupped Lydia’s face. Warmth radiated through her chin and nose, which helped a bit with the pain but not much with wooziness.   The healer helped her to a seated position, but the slight jostling was just enough to trigger pangs of nausea and within moments she retched, dribbling vomit down her chin and tunic before rolling over and expelling the rest of what she had in her stomach onto the floor.

“Lydia!” A familiar voice called out and she looked up as Iona crouched down, looking stern and disappointed. But she didn’t admonish her fellow housecarl for her current state; she simply shook her head. “Get back to Honeyside,” she said, her voice calm but firm enough for Lydia to know that protesting would not go over well. She nodded and stood. By the time she was upright, the patrons of the tavern had resumed their drinking and conversing. After tossing Keerava a coin purse with a little extra gold for her trouble, she left and staggered back to the house, where she stripped off her clothes and tried to rehydrate herself without triggering another bout of regurgitation.

After cleaning herself and her clothes as best she could, as she was still rather drunk, she went down to Trygve’s room, where she wrapped herself up in a blanket and curled up on his bed. Thinking back to Iona’s look of disgust and how stupid she must have looked, a representative of Balgruuf’s court getting her inebriated arse kicked, the weight of all her insecurities came crashing down at once and she started to cry.

She sobbed for a bit, doing her best to stifle the sound when she heard someone open the door and make their way downstairs. There was a soft knock on the door and Lydia quickly sat up, clutching the blanket to herbody, and wiped her eyes. “Come in,” she said, clearing her throat. She forced a smile, but when the door opened and J’zargo stepped in, her softened into a frown—not because she was disappointed to see him, but because she could relax.

“My Lydia! What is the matter?” he said as he closed the door and took a seat next to her on the bed. “What happened to your face?” He moved wisps of hair away so he could see her bruises, which, though faded from the healing spell, were still visible.

“Oh just a run-in at the Bee and the Barb. It’s a long story…not important,” she replied. His touch, though light, was comforting and she edged a little closer to him. “How did it go with Vex?”

“A bit difficult at first, but she told me that she sent Ranmir’s wife to Hobs Falls Cave. So, we go there next. I know where it is.”

Lydia nodded. “And after that….” But she stopped. There wasn’t really anything to say. After they investigated the cave, they would return to the college. J’zargo would resume his studies and Lydia would resume her duties. Her heart sunk a little at this. She was going to miss him. It wasn’t just his stories or their flirtatious banter; rather, it was his unconditional admiration for her—not as a housecarl or a warrior or even a _true Nord_ —but simply as Lydia, the person she was before everything became overwhelming. The fact that he didn’t even know her back that made it all the more important.

“Does my Lydia need to talk?” He was worried and put his arm around her back, pulling her close.

She shook her head. She didn’t want to talk; she wanted to run away—take their leave and move to Senchal where they could eat all manner of tropical fruits, swim naked in the sea, and doze off after watching the sun set and—

_Fusozay Var Var_

She was tired of living by everyone else’s rules. For a culture that claimed to love revelry and lowering inhibitions, they had an awful lot of restrictions and taboos. And she wanted to break every last one.   She looked up at J’zargo who was still holding her close. Throwing all caution to the wind, she sat up and threw her leg over his lap, positioning herself so that she was straddling his lap. Taking his face in her hands, she pressed her lips to his, melting into his embrace. She bit his lip a little, giggling as she slipped her tongue into his mouth. It was, well it was weird, rough and with angles she wasn’t quite accustomed too.

As they began to grope and grab, untangling her blanket, undoing the ties on her robe, she became painfully and embarrassingly aware of where she was. “Wait,” she said, pulling her face away from his, though she continued to grip his waist with her legs. “I…we…I don’t.”

J’zargo straightened up quickly and pulled away. “It is okay. J’zargo is just confused. It seemed like you wanted—“

“Oh, I do,” she said, eager to reassure him. “But this is Trygve’s bed.”

“Ah yes, well,” J’zargo looked around a bit, “we could move to the floor.”

Lydia swallowed and nodded, “Yes…yes. That is…perfect.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a long author note planned, but suffice to say it’s late and I can’t remember a damn thing I wanted to say.  But yeah, Lydia’s got some baggage.


	24. Into the Shining Sun

(Author note: Some context points: (1) this chapter begins where [chapter twenty, book one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1565681/chapters/4746444) left off, with Nerien leaving Mzulft, and occurs before/concurrently with Labyrinthian an the Eye of Magnus.  (2) The prophesy brought up here was mentioned at the very end of [chapter fourteen, book two.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3710686/chapters/16271543)

—

Nerien was furious. After leaving Mzulft and thinking more about how Quaranir had gone behind his back and sought Elspeth out on his own, he had to restrain himself from finding the other monk and demanding an explanation. In his rage, he could only imagine the most distrustful reasons for such a betrayal, that his colleague meant to push him aside and claim the honor of finding a champion for himself. But this behavior and the feelings of paranoia and frustration: as a monk of the Psijic Order they were beneath him. He would not confront the other mer; he would consult the Oracle.

The Oracle, a seer from the Dragontail Mountains, one of a long-line of wise women who had advised mages and monarchs for centuries, had prophesied that he would find their champion.  _Molagkynd_ , she said. In Ayelidoon it meant fire child. For Nerien, who had been agitating the Order to take a more aggressive stance against the Thalmor, this revelation steered him toward his current path. Soon after, he and some of the other Psijics infiltrated the Thalmor tower in Alinor and discovered Martin Septim’s journal and various dossiers on the Sigeweald family. According to these texts, this particular bloodline had ended with the death of Elspeth’s father. Nevertheless, Nerien had taken it as a sign that he was meant to find a Septim, believing “fire child” referred to a dragon.

The Loremaster was displeased. The Psijic Order’s opposition to the Thalmor had nothing to do with reviving the Septim dynasty. As a scholarly matter, however, the apotheosis of Talos was a topic of immense importance and no one understood that better than his own protégé, Ilario, a not-yet-initiated apprentice of the Order who had been requested personally by Arch-mage Relamus to teach Mysticism at Arcane University, a clue that the Thalmor’s grip on the old institution was being slowly loosened, by one of their very own agents.

Ultimately, the journal and dossiers were a dead end. The Oracle’s divination was cryptic, and without any more leads, Nerien began to despair. However, when he heard from Ilario about the young destruction mage at the college, the student to whom the Arch-mage had taught his most notorious and powerful spell, his hope was renewed. Perhaps this woman, her name unknown to him, was the fire child he was seeking. With this hope in mind, he gave the journal to Quaranir to take to Evangeline and he made his way to Arcane, only to discover that the entire university had been purged the night before.

For months he sought out witnesses and survivors, but every attempt was thwarted while the Thalmor completed their investigation and issued their report. Up to this point, the two young witnesses listed in the record were nowhere to be found and so he could only surmise that the mage was killed along with her classmates and instructors.

And then, like a crack of lightening tearing through the entirety of Mundus, they heard the spell being cast, the Sorcerer’s Bane. That Relamus’ apprentice might still be alive filled him once again with hope. When he first approached her in Saarthal, he only meant to observe, not wanting to overwhelm the young mage or distract her from the path she was on, confident that her it would eventually lead to the Order and his personal tutelage. Now he wished he’d never given the journal to Quaranir. He should have taken it to Evangeline himself. All along the dragon and the fire child had been one and the same and that should have been his to discover.

However, by the time he arrived in Daggerfall, Nerien’s feelings toward the other monk had softened and he felt somewhat foolish over his envy and petty thoughts. Quaranir’s involvement with Elspeth did not preclude his own. And he knew could trust his colleague to keep her safe and her identity concealed until the appropriate time. In the meantime, he would meet with the resistance and speak with the Oracle.

Things were busy at Wintorne Castle, a small stronghold in southern Daggerfall belonging to Henri, the patriarch of House Gaering, a merchant and long-time supporter of Evangeline. A lower house of little influence, House Gaering’s clandestine activities went unnoticed by most everyone, Thalmor and otherwise. Several dissident battlemages and the captain assigned to the stronghold, Elalda Laemius, an Altmer sorcerer, were gathered around a table in the small study going over correspondence from around High Rock and Cyrodiil, tracking both Thalmor movement and the growing mass of resistance fighters.

“Greetings Nerien,” Elalda welcomed him with a broad smile. “What news from Skyrim? What of the artifact the college discovered?”

“I was only there briefly before I—before I was called away,” he explained, not wanting to reveal the true reason for his quick departure from Skyrim. “But Quaranir has been in touch with the mages. I expect his report with be forthcoming.”

“And is it true that the dragons have returned and the greybeards have summoned a Dragonborn?”

“Indeed, it is true,” he replied, thinking carefully about how much detail regarding Elspeth was absolutely necessary at the moment. “She’s a mage with the college. A Breton.”

“Interesting,” Elada looked thoughtful for a moment, but before she could inquire further, their conversation was interrupted.

“Ah yes, Ysmir, the dragon of the North has been found. Yes, yes this is good.” A raw and aging voice came from behind him. It was the Oracle.

“My lady!” Elada stepped aside as the woman slowly made her way to the table around which they were all standing. She walked steadily and though her humped back made her bearing somewhat unsteady, her stride was strong and her presence commanding. She didn’t generally attend meetings, but her counsel was always welcome.

Though Nerien was eager to speak with her, he stood patiently with the others while Elada prepared for the next order of business. She was shuffling some parchment around when there was a loud knock. At the door was a courier accompanied by several stronghold guards. Nerien retrieved the correspondence and, after tipping the young man, brought the letter to captain.

The initial look of confusion on the captain’s face quickly gave way to a slight grin as she read the letter. “Mithedi Thrameus is dead.”

A collective gasp sounded amongst the mages. Mithedi Thrameus was an Altmer noble, an immensely wealthy and powerful sorcerer, who was joked to be older than Anu. Though he was not technically a government official, members of the Thalmor regularly convened at his estate. He was also believed to be one of the instigators of the fringe element of the Thalmor whose goals were far more nefarious than warmongering and enslavement, the ones who would tear the world asunder.

“I didn’t think anything would kill that old wizard,” Elada was bewildered.

“Was it one of ours?” Nerien asked.

“No,” she replied, looking intently at the letter again. “This seems to indicate…natural causes.” She cocked her head and folded the letter and carefully tucked it into her pile of papers.

“Yes, good.” The Oracle was speaking, at first to no one in particular. But she turned and her gaze, as well as that of all mages in the room, settled on Nerien. “You must go,” she said. “You will find your dragon there.”

“I suppose it is prudent for us to investigate a bit,” Elada agreed, looking back and forth between Nerien and the old crone. “See Adela in Anvil. She  _runs_ the harbor side inn.” Her facetious emphasis on “runs” was a nod to the fact that the inn was one of several port businesses that was largely a front for resistance activities. “She can find you as many rebels as you need. And Evangeline may still have an outpost at Crowhaven, where—”

“No,” the old woman interjected. “No soldiers.”

“Excuse me,” Nerien began, considering his words carefully. “You believe I should infiltrate the estate of a very powerful Thalmor supporter alone?”

“No, not alone.” The Oracle spoke quietly and narrowed her eyes at the mer. “Take [Yarah](https://elspethaurilie.wordpress.com/2012/06/25/analepsis-c/).”

*****

Nerien took his time walking to the small cottage on the far end of the property, pondering the Oracle’s directive to take Yarah along on the mission. It made sense he supposed, considering her past. When they first met, he’d remembered her name from the Thalmor’s dossier on the incident at Arcane. Young and beautiful, she had a fierceness typical of Redguards. She was not an exceptional mage, though she was well trained in alchemy, enchanting, and alteration, and she could also hold her own in a fight. And she had survived a purge. A few apprentices escaped death that night, but only one had saved Elspeth by convincing her to ignore her studies in favor of drinking in the city.

He stood outside the door of the room, in which she was working and thought for a moment. Some day Nerien would tell her just how important that drink was. But that would have to wait.

“Yarah,” he called out as he entered the room.

“Nerien, hello,” she responded, seemingly surprised, and hurried to clear the table of her papers to make room.

“What are you working on?” he asked, gesturing to her notes.

“Daenil asked me to research a specific type of paralysis spell that works by burdening the mark and then hardening the bones rather than the muscles. Then I’m supposed to find an antidote.”

“Well, that’s awfully specific.”

“That’s Daenil,” she replied, chuckling and nodding toward the long list of detailed instructions the fastidious senior alchemist and left for her. “I’m just about done, I think. I mean, nothing is ever finished for him but…did you need something?”

Nerien laughed. “As a matter of fact, yes. We’re going to Cyrodiil, leaving first thing in the morning.”

“Cyrodiil?” Her eyes grew in nervous anticipation. Her assignments barely took her outside of Daggerfall. And if she was to accompany Nerien, it must be important. She nodded and took in a deep breath to quell her anxiety. “I suppose I must prepare then.”

*****

About a week and a half later, after two uneventful boat rides, they arrived in Anvil posing as an Altmer noble with his bodyguard. Yarah remarked, somewhat teasingly, that he looked resplendent the exquisite robe that he had procured for the quest, while she felt awkward in the elven armor they gave her to wear. It fit well enough, but she was used to robes.

“Security will be tight,” Nerien explained in the carriage on the way to Brina Cross village, which was located just a few miles south of Mithedi’s estate. “There are a few areas open to general visitors, a library and a lodge. The main embassy building, Mithedi’s home, accessing these will be difficult, if not impossible. The barracks will be a bit easier, a small bribe and a story concerning a runaway servant should suffice.”

“And my task?” Yarah asked.

“Stay with me. Look both imposing and deferential,” he explained. “I have confidence you can act the part. Surely your family had hired muscle in its employ?”

“Yes,” she nodded, though she disliked when comments about her family’s wealth emerged. “And I am sure I can act the part. I once had quite a flair for dramatics. When I was a little girl, my father was convinced I would wind up on the stage.”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” he replied. He rather enjoyed Yarah’s company. From the stories she told on their journey, of her life before the purge, he could tell she had come a long way. In less than a year she had gone from a carefree life of leisure, using the university as a means to facilitate her sociability rather than to develop her skills and intellect, to one of rebellion and service. And while her days of reckless abandon were over, she hadn’t lost her adventurous spirit or conviviality.

It was late when they arrived at the inn. After a spread of freshly baked bread and several cheeses, a bottle of wine, and the best pear tart he had ever put into his mouth, Nerien’s belly was full and he was nodding off. But the meal only invigorated Yarah, and while Nerien retired to his room, Yarah settled in to a card game with a group of off-duty guards and paid the bard to play the bawdiest songs she could think of.

The next morning he found Yarah drinking tea and eating dry toast as she attempted to nurse her hangover without the aid of an elixir. “I hate this village,” she said, as she poured herself another cup of tea. “There’s no chitin to be found anywhere.”

Nerien chucked and shook his head. “You’ll recover soon”

“I always do,” she replied. She forced the last bit of toast down by dissolving it in her mouth with tea. It was unpleasant, but having something in her stomach felt better than not. “I’m ready to leave when you are.”

Nerien nodded and stood. After procuring some food and potions, they set out to Mithedi’s estate, which was located several miles north of the village. This first step was mostly reconnaissance. Under the guise of paying his respect, Nerien would access the estate, determine the basic layout, and though the Oracle had instructed that he only take Yarah, he hoped to find a dissident mage among the staff. That would save him a considerable amount of time as well as money, since it would mean fewer bribes.

“Do you have any idea who we are looking for?” Yarah asked.

 _You will know._ That was the only thing the Oracle said. He was generally an intuitive individual, so this was not surprising, nor was it particularly bothersome. But such knowledge did not preclude a long, involved, or even dangerous search.

“I have some ideas,” he replied. “A prisoner, I think. Either someone locked up in his barracks. Or a noble. One of his wards. Either way, we’re going to have to get them out and away from the estate.”

“Let’s hope they’re in the barracks then.”

Nerien nodded in agreement. Before and during the Great War, there had been many dealings between the Aldmeri Dominion and the Empire’s nobility, particularly among the Bretons of High Rock. Though an Imperial province, the courts of High Rock were fraught with conflict and Imperial loyalty was dubious at best among the Houses. In this context, the Thalmor was able to implement an elaborate system of hostage taking to secure their economic and military interests in the region, relationships that persisted to this day. Under the circumstances, retrieving a Dominion ward from their captor would be far more difficult than a mere prison break.

“There is a hostel just inside the gate,” Nerien explained as they approached the well-guarded estate. “It’s where the guards socialize and housecarls stay. Sit, have a drink, listen for gossip, ask a few questions, but don’t seem overly inquisitive.” Somehow he didn’t think this would be a problem. Yarah was naturally inclined toward socializing and had a rare talent for casually enticing information from people.

“Will they be suspicious of a Redguard?” she asked. She was a little nervous, but this was her only real concern.

“Amongst the bodyguards?” he replied. “No. In Cyrodiil, hirelings are far more diverse. As long as you stick to the common areas, the hostel, the smithy, or some of the other craftsmen, you shouldn’t raise any suspicion.”

In his expensive garb, Nerien looked every bit a noble, barely raising an eyebrow among the guards and they passed through the main gate of the estate with ease. After Yarah left him, he quickly made his way toward the Mithedi’s manor. The private quarters would be locked tight, but there was a garden, a gallery, and a reading room that were open to general visitors. Any wards living on this particular estate would likely be there, enjoying what little freedom they had to move about the place.

Indeed, there were several younger Bretons and Imperials wandering the grounds, studying magic tomes, and distinguishing wards from guests would be impossible. At the far end of the reading room, were rooms dedicated to magic and academic instruction for younger individuals living there. Nerien stopped and listened carefully just outside a room where several young students were practicing spells. None of them seemed particularly remarkable in their skills Of course, there was always a chance that the person he was looking for was not an exceptional mage or warrior. Though it seemed unlikely, they could be unremarkable in almost every facet.

But the Oracle said he would know and no one here was triggering any intuitive feelings. A more thorough investigation of the Estate’s inhabitants was warranted. That would be difficult, but not impossible. It was just a matter of getting some coin into the right hands. In the meantime, he needed to visit the dungeon and investigate the prisoners there.

The jailor accepted a bribe for fifteen minutes in the dungeon. Only a handful of prisoners were interned and Nerien strode around, looking at each one carefully. He recognized one, an Imperial named Felix, one of Evangeline’s dissidents. Nerien approached the cell and cast the spell that allowed him to stop time briefly. “Felix,” he said, startling the poor Imperial.

“Hello,” he replied. “I wasn’t expecting someone from the order.”

“I’m here on…well, what you might call an independent investigation,” he explained. “Are you okay? Is there anyone I should get a message to? I…” His voice trailed off as he there was little he could do for the man. It simply wasn’t a priority.

“I’ll be fine for now,” he said, shaking his head. “What brings you all the way out here?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” Nerien replied as the spell holding time began to waver a bit. “Are there any other prisoners? Anyone…important?”

“Not that I am aware, most are transferred to one of the cities within a day or so,” he explained. “The only permanent prisoners here are the wards.”

Nerien nodded as the spell dissipated. Within a few seconds, the jailer called out, “Time!” and the Altmer slowly departed nodding good-bye to the jailer and the elderly Khajiit woman who was sweeping by the doorway. Outside, he wandered around, pondering his next step. He would need to access the living quarters and other private areas. They would need to head back to Anvil. There he could acquire more detailed information on the layout of the estate and the names of corruptible agents among the estate’s staff. With this plan in mind, he quickly made his way back to the tavern where Yarah would have no doubt fulfilled her obligation, making friends and gathering gossip.

Indeed, when he found here there, she was in the middle of a small group of men hanging on her every last word. Looking up, she gestured to Nerien that she was ready and excused herself from her companions, several of who looked rather disappointed as she left.

“What news?” she asked as soon as they left the gate.

“Nothing really. You?”

“Mithedi’s death was sudden, but the aftermath? Seamless.” She nodded to emphasize this point to a skeptical looking Nerien. “He had no family—well, no family that he liked apparently. Everything’s been bequeathed to various people in the Dominion, and his wards already are assigned new guardians.”

The Thalmor were nothing if not meticulous in their planning, but nothing was ever seamless—at least not with so much at stake. Mithedi’s influence was expansive among various players in Tamriel’s political landscape, and there had to be a wrinkle somewhere. “We need to find out exactly where everything went. Tomorrow, we’re going to Anvil. You can meet with Adele, see what they know about the estate. I’m going to visit the records office—there has to be official records of some of his dealings within Cyrodiil.”

*****

They were about midway between the estate and the village when Nerien stopped suddenly and slowly turned around, looking over the terrain.

“What is it?” asked Yarah.

Nerien cast a detect life spell and sure enough there was a figure that appeared to be crouching behind a large boulder. He frowned and gestured for Yarah to follow him. Moving swiftly but quietly, he stepped around the rock. He caught a quick glimpse of fur before he lunged forward, grabbing the Khajiit by the neck and tossing her down to the ground. Letting out a squeal, she threw her arms over her face and hissed a little before crying out. “No! Please! Dro’zita means no harm!”

With Yarah behind him, sword drawn, Nerien let down his casting arm and looked a little more closely. The Khajiit looked familiar and within a few moments he recalled seeing her in the estate prison. She was frail and if it was true she meant them no harm, he felt bad for the way he shoved her down. Leaning forward, he offered his hand. “Who are you?” he asked sternly. “Why are you following us?”

With their help, Dro’zita stood and brushed the grass from her dress, a simple frock in the tidy and casual style worn by kitchen and cleaning help. After steadying herself, she looked at the Altmer and Redguard carefully. “Dro’zita saw the mer today. Noblemer never come to the dungeon. You are looking for someone, yes?”

Nerien and Yarah looked at each other and then back to the Khajiit. The Altmer studied her carefully before nodding slowly.

“Dro’zita knows where he is! Mithedi’s special prisoner. Dro’zita takes care of this prisoner. No one else knows about him. You come tonight. Dro’zita will bring you to him.”

Nerien looked at her skeptically. He was certainly intrigued, but he wasn’t stupid. “Take us now.”

“No! Dro’zita must return to her duties. You come! Three hours past midnight. Go one mile north of the manor. Wait by the trees.”

*****

By the time they arrived at the place Dro’zita had indicated, Nerien was as convinced as Yarah that they were walking into a trap. But there had been no time for better preparations, no way to find a reliable courier to send word back to High Rock or one of their contacts back in Anvil. Yarah had suggested staying behind, but that didn’t seem like a good idea either. And so they made their way back to the estate, taking the long way around the perimeter and arriving nearly a mile north of the back gate right where the Khajiit indicated.

After about twenty minutes, there was a rustling.   Nerien cast a detect life spell just as Dro’zita’s head emerged from a trap door in the ground. “My apologies,” she said when she saw the mages standing there. “Getting away from my duties this evening was most difficult.”

The Altmer glanced around, following the disappearing remnants of his spell, which confirmed that Dro’zita was the only living being in the area.

“Come now,” she said as her head disappeared back down into the ground. “We must hurry!”

The mages followed her into the trap door, balancing on the rickety ladder, and then made way down a narrow and musty stone corridor, lit only by magelight spells.

“What is this place?” asked Nerien.

“It is a secret,” Dro’zita began. “It was built a long time ago and it leads right back to Mithedi’s private home. I believe before he kept the man down here, he meant to use it as an escape route. It was only known to a few people, including my sister who worked here before I did.”

Nerien and Yarah walked along quietly, nodding as Dro’zita nattered on a bit about her sister and Mithedi but not really paying attention until the Khajiit gestured toward a room. “That room there, that is the laboratory. We are very close now. Mithedi used to spend many days down here at a time, doing his work. Others believed he was travelling.”

The Altmer stayed close to Dro’zita, his thoughts solely on the prisoner, but Yarah paused and stepped into the room. A candlelight spell thrown against the wall illuminated one of the strangest workshops she had ever seen. Along the left wall, separated from the main part of the room was a large bed and armoire, which wasn’t that unusual, especially if he worked down here for days at a time. The enchanting and alchemy tables were also quite normal. What was strange was the enormous leech tank that ran the length of the right side of the room. Some healers she knew, particularly those interested in sanguinare vampiris and lycanthrope, used leeches, though she had never seen a tank quite this big before. Next to the tank was a bookshelf with hundreds of vials filled with what looked like blood.

“Yarah!” Nerien’s voice interrupted her thoughts. Taking one final glance around the room, she noticed a pile of journals and loose papers on the bookcase’s bottom shelf. She gathered these up and shoved them in her satchel as she hurried down the hall.

“That’s him,” Nerien whispered as she sidled up next to him at the entrance of another, smaller room. Inside the room, which was furnished more like a bedroom than a prison cell, was a man who appeared to be sleeping peacefully on a comfortable-looking bed. The Altmer made no moves to approach the man. For the moment, he simply stared, transfixed on the prisoner. He knew, just as the Oracle said he would, that this was one he was destined to find.

“I don’t understand,” said Yarah. “If he’s a prisoner, why doesn’t he just leave when he wakes up?”

Dro’zita went to the man and smoothed down his dark blonde hair. As she did this, his eyes fluttered open but he did not move or respond in any other way. “The magic is too strong and he’s been here for so very long,” she explained, her voice tinged with sadness. “Years and years, he’s been here. He never moves, except when I take care of him.” She took a bottle out of the side table and propped it into his mouth. “I give him elixirs, special brews to keep him alive and healthy. I also trim his hair and his beard.” She looked lovingly down at the man, but when she looked back up at Nerien, she appeared frightened and confused. She gestured toward the cupboard, which held only a few more bottles. “Soon, there will be nothing left. I will have nothing to help this man and Dro’zita does not trust the Methidi’s friends, the Thalmor, no.”

“What sort of magic?” Nerien knelt by the man to get a closer look, clearly astonished at his condition, which appeared to be some sort of magically induced coma. He had so many more questions, but assumed that the Khajiit, for all her dedication to this man’s well being, likely knew very little more that she had already revealed.

“Artifacts,” she replied. “Very old artifacts.” She pushed the man’s beard aside revealing an amulet and gestured to his hand, which Nerien inspected.

“He is wearing a ring of burden, and that amulet has a powerful calming enchantment,” he let out a deep breath. The sheer amount of power required to enchant something with an illusion spell was incredible. Mithedi went through a lot of trouble for this prisoner. “Why didn’t you remove these?”

“Dro’zita is afraid. The magic is very strong.” Dro’zita’s voice wavered a bit. “I take good care of the man, no?”

“Yes, yes you did good,” Nerien said, smiling warmly at the Khajiit before turning to Yarah. “We should remove the ring first.”

“Won’t that be terribly painful?” Yarah lifted the man’s robe slightly to examine his calves. His muscles were severely weakened, though not atrophied. “He’s extremely weak, but seems rather healthy. But…just removing that ring is going to hurt an awful lot.   And there is no way to remove the enchantment gradually. Are you sure we shouldn’t remove the amulet first?”

Nerien nodded. “It will be painful, but I fear removing an illusion spell that’s been in effect for years may actually drive him insane. We’re going to have to be more careful about that.” He paused and studied the man’s face, looking into his eyes. “Who knows what’s going on in there?”

The ring easily slipped off the man’s withered finger and they all watched as he felt, for the first time in years, the unbearable lightness of his body return. It would be a long time before his bearing would be anything close to normal. In the meantime, his head rolled and his limbs twitched. Groaning, he tried to turn over and lean up but all he managed to do was jerk uncontrollably, like when a dog dreams of running.

“Hold on!” Nerien grabbed some cushions from a nearby chair. “Help me prop him up.”

Gently, they eased him forward, the man’s eyes wandering, his lips and tongue lapping and smacking against each other as he slowly regained control of his body. The sound was enough to drive Yarah mad and she was almost grateful when he started coughing; the barking and gagging sounds were somehow not quite as annoying.

“Water?” she asked. The man looked up, his eyes widened as he nodded slowly and his mouth curled into a very weak grin. Even with Yarah’s help, however, he only managed a few small sips before nudging her arm away. The sensation of swallowing on his own was, for the moment, a bit overwhelming.

“We are here to help you.” Nerien spoke calmly and deliberately. His job, for the moment, was to help and comfort this man who had suffered through Auri-El-knows-what at the hands of Mithedi. It was not about prophesy or rebellion—that would come later, much later if need be. “What is your name?”

“My name?” the man whispered. “My name…oh yes of course, my name.” His voice was raw, its pitch growing slightly with each word, as if he was astonished to be speaking at all. “My name is [Bedyn Sigeweald](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3710686/chapters/8213887).”


	25. The Lies that You Believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains adult themes.

"Pah WERID, all praise… SONaaN LUNERIO, blah blah” Elspeth was studying the wall, muttering the words when Lydia sidled up next to her.

“Can you read all of that now?” she asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

Elspeth shook her head and looked at her friend slightly askance. Since leaving the college, she had fallen silent again, much like when they left Whiterun for High Hrothgar. Except this time Lydia was no longer wallowing in the depths of despair. Though it was apparent to Elspeth that she was purposely turning inward, she dared not ask why. Things were already awkward enough.

Not all of it,” she explained, “but more than before, when it was just one word, the important one.” She drew her finger across the wall, stopping at FO. “Frost,” she whispered. The words came readily now; the hollow sounds and vibration were much less intrusive than when she discovered that first wall in Bleak Stone Barrow. She was beginning to wonder about the nature of this, what made the knowledge so immediately accessible, though she wouldn’t be able to ponder this long.

“What does that do?”

Swallowing against the tightness that grew in her chest every time she shouted, she took a deep breath. Then, drawing from the power deep within her and focusing her mind on the new word, she shouted, “ _FO_.” In an instant, frigid air flew out of her mouth, but with no target the blast simply froze, little droplets falling and shattering on the ground in a thousand diamond-like pieces.

But Elspeth didn’t notice; her mouth and jaw were numbed by the force of the shout that reverberated a bit, sending searing pains through her head, like an icicle shooting outward from the center of her skull through her nose and eye-sockets. Groaning, she brought her hand up to her head and leaned against the wall. Arngeir had warned her that without the years of meditation it took most individuals to learn words, years that prepared the mind and body, the sheer force and strength of certain shouts could be painful.

“Elspeth!” Lydia gasped as she leaned over and placed her hand gently on her shoulder.

“Is she hurt?” Trygve came running up from the base of Bonestrewn Crest where he’d been harvesting jazby grapes and dragon’s tongue and generally trying to stay out of the way.

Lydia started to nod, but Elspeth forced herself upright. “No!” she said firmly, adjusting her armor and staggering past, avoiding his gaze and nearly tripping over the tail bones of their most recently slain dragon.   The pain in her head was still radiating, but not enough to accept his assistance. Lydia sighed and shook her head as she ran to catch up.

As they mounted their horses, Lydia looked wistfully over the hot springs and took a deep breath. “I love the smell of mineral soup in the morning,” she laughed, thinking back to all the times she and Hrongar had taken the long way home just so they could stop here. Surprisingly, it didn’t make her sad—she just wished they could stay a while. “Next time we’ll camp here. And spend the day soaking.”

It was a lovely day, but they had to move on. They rode on to Windhelm, the mist from the volcanic tundra trailing around. Trygve stayed a reasonable distance behind. Though he was mostly impervious to the tension between them, he was growing weary of Elspeth’s persistent scowl whenever he made a suggestion or offered his assistance.

Just north of Kynesgrove, the weather took a turn, soft clusters of snowflakes falling, the kind that melted on impact, so that by the time they arrived in Candlehearth Hall, they were soggy as well as tired and hungry. It was too late to go to the palace, so they cleaned up and settled in for dinner, with Lydia and Elspeth at one table and Trygve alone at the far end of the room, by the bard.

“Are you ever going to talk to him again?” Lydia frowned. She found it commendable that Elspeth had chosen to keep Trygve despite what he did to Onmund—following her head rather than her heart—but unlike Trygve, she found the tension between everyone unbearable **.**  Though she soon realized her quiescence of late wasn’t helping either.

“No,” Elsepth replied curtly. Had she and Onmund been able to resolve things, she might have felt a little conciliatory toward Trygve. But Onmund had barely regarded her the morning she left Winterhold, not even to say good-bye.

Poking at her food, her thoughts wandered to the night before when she was simply sad. Lying awake on her bedroll she played over their last night together, the stark contrast between the passion and intimacy they shared and the coldness of his demeanor the next morning. With the realization that she might never see him again and that he might choose to move on to someone whose life was less  _exciting_ , her stomach knotted and her face grew numb. Sleep had eluded her. She offered to take Lydia’s watch and spent the early morning hours simply staring into the fire. There was no contemplation, no thoughtful ruminations or even rationalizations on the matter.

It was late when they finally finished their meals and made their way to their room. Elspeth had hoped an actual bed might facilitate sleep but this was but a pipe dream. The White Phial was closed; otherwise she would have procured a sleeping draught. She knew Trygve had a potent elixir, but she wasn’t asking him for anything. Instead, she lay still and stared into the darkness above, her thoughts wandering back to her childhood, to Xeri and her insistence on staying detached, focus, and to her training, which always seemed to interfere with her relationship with Andil.

_“You’re going to be sixteen soon,” Xeri seemed to bring this up out of nowhere, though Elspeth knew better. The matter of her age was irrelevant; it was simply a way to open the conversation. “He’s going to…want things,” she continued, her face stern and her tone unyielding. “And you, you’re going to want things.”_

_Elspeth recoiled as she spoke. Gods, she thought, not this. Not know. “Maybe Runa should be the one…”_

_“If Runa has her way, she would move Andil right into your bed permanently!” The womer’s tone didn’t waver. “And you’ll do what you want I suppose, but mark my words child, it will do you no good to indulge your…_ appetite _.” Her tone dropped, betraying her disdain as Elspeth continued to wince. She went on and on, explaining that it wasn’t sexual relations per se that were the problem, but of the comingling of physical and emotional intimacy that made it impossible for adolescents to focus. But by then Elspeth had stopped listening, praying now for more laps around Bruma’s walls or knuckle push-ups on the frozen ground._

She cringed at the memory, her discomfort still palpable even after all these years. But Xeri had gone well beyond inspiring feelings of discomfort in her protégé. Despite Runa’s protestations, she went forward and did everything in her power to sabotage her relationship with Andil—and it worked. Not that Elspeth was blameless, but things would have been a lot easier without her mentor dragging her away from him for weeks, sometimes months, at a time.

And yet here she was, once again despairing over another failed romance. This time, however, she had no one but herself to blame. It’s not that she didn’t try to blame Trygve, but her own guilt overshadowed his culpability in her mind, though plenty of bitterness toward him remained.

If only Onmund could have forgiven her, they might have found a way to move forward. She would have met his patience and absolution with a renewed commitment to provide some part of her that for him and him alone. But perhaps there was no balance to be found; perhaps her life was simply not conducive to that sort of intimacy. Xeri was right all along. The realization stung, but there was little to be done now and the last thing Elspeth needed was more resentment and anger.   With this she drifted off a little and slept for what felt like five minutes.

Breakfast was quiet. Elspeth was sore from sleep deprivation and mostly glared at her food. When Trygve offered her a potion, she accepted reluctantly. She mixed the elixir—a mix of honey and purple mountain flower—into her tea and drank it down. It took the edge off her weariness, boosting her energy and clearing her head a bit. “Thank you,” she mumbled, though she didn’t look up.

They quickly finished the rest of their breakfast and made their way to the Palace of Kings. Elspeth, thinking back on Helgen, wondered if Ulfric Stormcloak would remember her at all. It was unlikely she supposed as her thoughts wondered back to that day, all the death and destruction. The violence wrought, not just by the dragon but also the soldiers.

Well shit, she thought and just outside the palace entrance, she turned suddenly. “Trygve!” She studied his face for a moment before lowering her voice to speak again. “Are you…is this going to be a problem?”

“Is what going to be a problem?” That was speaking to him at all was confusing. That she sounded somewhat concerned perplexed him even further. And he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Your brother…he was in the Legion. Are you going to have a problem here?”

“Oh…no,” he said. “Though I appreciate—” But she had turned away and was already through the door before he could complete a sentence. He looked back at Lydia who simply shrugged before following Elspeth.

The Palace’s Great Hall was swarming with people, mostly Dunmer and men and women in Stormcloak garb, though it was impossible to tell if they were local guards or soldiers. There was no discernible order of any sort so they pushed though the crowd, where they found an empty throne and a rather harried Jorlief trying to calm an angry mer with desperate reassurances.

“Sir, I am confident that—”

“Confident!” The Dunmer interjected. “I’m tired of your empty promises, as are the rest of the elves. Mark my words steward, it won’t be long before the denizens of the Grey Quarter start taking matters into their own hands.”

“I will make this matter a priority.” Jorleif spoke firmly

The Dunmer, still unconvinced, scowled and grunted as he turned. Elspeth and her companions, moving in unison, stepped back to give the mer a wide berth as he stomped away. The Breton’s gaze lingered as he disappeared into the crowd. Recalling their first visit to Windhelm and the favor they did for Brunwulf, she had to suppress the urge to catch up to the mer and offer her assistance. That she couldn’t saddened her a bit.

“Lydia! Elspeth!” Jorlief’s voice interrupted her thoughts. He was smiling broadly as he approached, and though she was not displeased that he remembered their names, it only intensified the nostalgia she was feeling for those first months in Skyrim. Pushing this aside, she forced a weak smile.

“What brings you to Windhelm? Are you looking to make some coin? Because I have plenty of work.”

“No, not quite,” she said. “We killed the Dragon up at Bonestrewn Crest and heard there was a bounty.” She gestured back toward Trygve who stepped forward and offered Jorlief a satchel containing the creature’s talons and dewclaws. According to Iddra over at Braidwood Inn, this had become the means by which one proved they felled a dragon since. Of course, Elspeth couldn’t exactly show off the souls she was taking. This led Trygve to wonder just how many fallen dragons were out there, waiting for Elspeth to come by and finish the job. Not many, he wagered.

“There is also this,” Elspeth removed the summons she’d received back in Whiterun and handed it to Jorleif.

As he recognized the correspondence he’d penned so many weeks ago to the then anonymous Dragonborn, his eyes grew wide and he smiled. “It’s you,” he said, trying to hide his initial surprise. Admittedly, this was not who he had pictured but he did not want to appear narrow-minded. “Well, the Jarl is eager to make your acquaintance.” Frowning, he looked around the hall. The crowd had dissipated somewhat but it was still busy and it seemed inappropriate to seat them in the middle of the room with guards and disgruntled citizens wandering about.

“This way.” He led them up a narrow set of stairs and into a sitting room in the palace’s guest quarters. “The Jarl will be back within the hour. Should I have any food or mead sent up?”

They shook their heads and Jorleif went back to deal with the crowd. Elspeth went straight to the sofa in the corner closest to the fireplace, while Trygve inspected the books on the shelves behind here, and an anxious Lydia paced back and forth. Years of listening to stories about Jarl Ulfric had left the housecarl with a somewhat conflicted image of the man and she was nervous.

Elspeth had propped herself up in a half-sitting, half-leaning position and was having trouble keeping her eyes open, her head jerking up violently every time she felt herself falling asleep. As their wait neared an hour, she began to regret not taking a nap and closed her eyes for just a little while.

However, within moments she heard voices echoing, bodies shuffling and heavy footfall, stopping just outside the door. Lydia stopped pacing and stood at attention while Tryve and Elspeth merely turned their heads up.

“Blasted dark elves. I don’t suppose you could tell them that I presently have larger concerns? Such as all of Skyrim?”

“Well then, if the Dunmer are not part of Skyrim, I’m sure they’ll be happy to stop paying those exorbitant taxes,” said Trygve under his breath.

Forgetting her resentment toward him, Elspeth chuckled. This lasted but a moment before she was scowling again. She should not have been surprised at the Jarl’s dismissal of the Dunmer in such a manner, but she was still disappointed that they would encounter his bitter side, rather than the fervent, impassioned one she had briefly witnessed just after they’d assisted with the Butcher.

“Dragonborn! What a pleasure to finally meet you,” Ulfric’s deep voice filled through the room. But when Elspeth looked up, he wasn’t directing his greeting at her. He was looking at Lydia.

The housecarl looked back at Elspeth, who in a split second decided she didn’t feel much like talking. She shrugged and sat back while her friend glared at her, not at all pleased at this turn of events. Still, she was much too intimidated by rebel leader to correct him.

“This is Galmar Stone-Fist,” he pointed to the older Nord that had followed him into the room. “He is my second in command.”

“It…it’s nice to meet you too. I’m Lydia…I guess….” Lydia, normally well versed in matters of court etiquette, was completely flustered. Nord customs weren’t particularly formal but she was nonplussed at Elspeth’s reticence and it showed.

Elspeth should have been amused. And at that point she should have stood and interjected that she was, in fact, the Dragonborn. But something held her back, disillusionment perhaps as she realized that Ulfric Stormcloak came in expecting a Nord Dragonborn. Had Jorleif not said anything to prepare the man? Perhaps there was a reason for that. She looked up at Trygve, whose expression betrayed neither amusement nor disapproval.

“I must say,” Ulfric continued, “I was not expecting someone so… _young_.”

“Oh, this guy is good,” Trygve muttered.

Whatever embarrassment might have been inspired that comment was soon thwarted as Ulfric turned on a more professional demeanor. “Dragonborn, if I may. I believe we are at a crossroads in Skyrim’s history. It is not my intention to ascribe any particular symbolic importance to the return of the dragons or of the Dragonborn. But that does not make the timing less significant. All eyes will be upon you. And—”

They were interrupted by a booming, raucous laugh coming from just outside the door. Ulfric scowled as he looked over. Stepping in the room was the biggest, hardest looking Nord Elspeth had ever seen. His bearded face, colored with war paint, was scarred and serious. Whatever amusement the man had enjoyed just moments ago had quickly vanished from his expression. He nodded in apology to the Jarl as he moved to the side, making room for the soldier behind him to enter. The second Nord was shorter, and his face much gentler, and familiar.

“Ralof!” Elspeth leapt from her seat and ran across the room, nearly crashing into Lydia on her way.

“Tiny Breton warrior!” He grunted as she threw herself into his arms. He gripped her tightly, though maneuvering in their armor was a bit awkward. Forgetting, where he was for a moment, he held her at arm’s length, one hand cupping her neck. Since Helgen, he’d thought constantly of the young woman who had helped him escape, wondering if she was okay and if he would ever see her again. Their parting had been amicable, affectionate even and he always wondered if he should have accompanied her to Whiterun.

“That’s Elspeth?” The gruffer Nord let out a surprised grunt and shook his head.

Ralof ignored him. “What brings you to Windhelm? Have you come to join the fight against the Empire?”

“No, not exactly,” Elspeth was so happy to see her friend and all she wanted to do was leave and drag him back to the tavern, where they could talk.

“Ralof! Do you know this woman?” Galmar interrupted, as the rest of the room looked curiously at the couple.

“Know her? I owe this woman my life,” he explained. “Jarl Ulfric, surely you remember.”

Ulfric, having recovered from being interrupted, approached and looked at Elspeth intently.   After a few moments of rubbing his chin, he spoke. “Indeed. You were with us at Helgen. Destined for the chopping block if I am not mistaken. You clean up nicely.”

“Ah…yes, thank you.” She rubbed her neck and she looked around, desperate to avoid everyone’s gaze.

“Tell me then,” he continued, “how did you come to be in the service of the Dragonborn.”

Elspeth glanced over at Lydia who was glowering at her. “Tell him,” she mouthed.

“With all due respect,” she said. “I am the Dragonborn.”

“Elspeth,” Ralof whispered. “The Dragonborn? I….” His voice trailed off as he pulled his arm away, suddenly uncertain of how he should regard his friend. “I knew you were something special but—”

“Is this some sort of joke?” Ulfric’s voice was steady, but the bitterness from earlier was returning. “This Breton cannot be the Dragonborn.”

She frowned at the Jarl. Just why not, she wondered, feeling defensive. “Would you like me to show you?” she asked.

But Ulfric wasn’t paying attention; he was ranting. “The Voice is not the magic of elves and other races. The Voice was given to the Nords, with the blessing of Kyne.”

“Ulfric….” Though Galmar looked no less suspicious than his leader, he seemed intent on calming the Jarl down.

But Ulfric would not be deterred. “It was Jurgen Windcaller, a  _Nord_  who understood the full potential of the Voice. And it is  _Nords_  who guard its secrets and nurture its adherents,  _Nords_  who must prove themselves. What business does a Breton have encroaching on this, our most sacred tradition?”

How was she supposed to answer such a question? She wanted to meet his claims about the Nords with her own regarding St. Alessia, Reman Cyrodiil, the Septims. He could invoke Kyne all he wanted, but the divine covenant of Akatosh was not for the Nords to claim. But theology was, quite possibly, the last thing she wanted to discuss with Ulfric Stormcloak. It was right up there with the Thalmor and the Concordat.

“It’s not something I chose,” she cried. “I don’t know why this was given to me.” She was struggling to sound humble, though this only seemed to anger him more.

“It doesn’t belong to you!”

The more enraged he became, the more defensive she felt. And so she answered his protests in the only the language she believed he would listen. Scowling and bracing herself, she drew a breath and shouted, “FUS.”

The force of the shout sent him staggering back, but didn’t knock him over. As if by instinct, Galmar stepped forward, hand on his axe, while Lydia and Trygve hurried to her side. Elspeth could hear Ralof and his friend shuffling around, edging away from everyone but before the room could come to blows, Ulfric recovered and let out an uncomfortable laugh.

“Stand down, everyone.” He rubbed his neck and looked over again. His expression was impossible to read and she simply hoped it was resignation, however reluctant. There was a long pause before he spoke again, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had befallen the room. “Dragonborn, I apologize. Forgive my behavior and know that you may avail yourself of any resource Windhelm can offer.”

He didn’t sound sorry, which probably should have bothered Elspeth more than it did, but she nodded, assuming the rest of his offer was sincere.

“Once again, this is Galmar Stone Fist second in command of the Stormcloaks. You know Ralof,” he said. “The other fellow is Thorven Greyjoy.”

“My name is Elspeth Aurilie. Lydia is my housecarl. And this is Trygve Wartooth, thane of the Rift.”

“And you’re Balgruuf’s thane as well,” he said, gesturing to her armor as he recognized the color on her cuirass. He was calmer now, though not exactly friendly. He would regard her with suspicion for a while, she assumed.

“Yes…and, if there is nothing else…”

“Excuse me, Dragonborn,” Thorven interrupted, his voice every bit as gruff as his countenance. “One of our scouts reported seeing a dragon not two days ago in the mountains in the Pale, in the area of Irkngthand. They informed one of Skald’s guards on patrol. But, I assumed you’d like to know.”

“Thank you,” she nodded and turned back to Ulfric. “My companions and I will take our leave now.”

Ulfric nodded. “Thorven, Ralof. Whatever business we have to discuss—we’ll reconvene in the war room in twenty.”

The group left together, fumbling down the dark hallway and narrow staircase. Upon entering the Great Room, Elspeth turned to Ralof. She didn’t want to leave him so quickly, but this wasn’t exactly a good time for a reunion either.

“Wait,” he said, as if reading her mind. Clutching her hand, he pulled her aside. “Ride over there with us. We’re just here to requisition supplies and update Galmar on Legion activities in the Pale. We’ll be done in less than an hour.”

Elspeth turned to confirm this with Trygve, but stopped, recalling that she didn’t care for his opinion on the matter. “All right,” she said. “We’ll meet you by the stables.”

*****

“Impressive.”

Ralof didn’t sound impressed, Elspeth thought, though she kept quiet. If he was sincere, she didn’t want to seem doubtful, so she simply shrugged and smiled.

“I was hoping for more than a light show,” he smirked. “Though I’m sure the less dragons you actually have to kill the better.” He looked down at the dead pyromancer at his feet, stepped back and frowned.

“Come with us,” Elspeth replied. “You’ll get to fight your fair share of dragons.”

“I just want to see you take one down.” He paused and looked around. “What should we do about the bodies? Burn ‘em? We can’t really bury them.”

“Let’s not waste the kindling,” Thorven advised.

“Elspeth doesn’t need kindling,” Ralof retorted, his tone a bit smug.

“We don’t really have time to tend to a funeral pyre but…let’s at least get them off this path,” said Elspeth. “I’d feel more productive…I guess.” Although she was more than relieved not to have to fight, just stepping up to the carcass and absorbing the dragon’s soul felt like cheating. Tending to the corpses at least felt like work and it didn’t take long to stack the bodies near a small outcropping of rocks just west of the path.

“All right,” said Lydia as she brushed her hands off and looked off toward the setting sun. “We’ve got to find a place to make camp.”

“I was hoping you’d stay at our camp,” Ralof interjected, ignoring Thorven’s disapproving sneer. “Please? It would be such an honor and I know the lads all want to meet the Dragonborn of legend.”

“You’d trust us with the location of your camp?” asked Lydia.

“The Stormcloaks control the Pale, so it’s not much of a secret,” he explained. “It’s mostly used for training, and as a stopping point for couriers we hire.”

“It’s right off the southern shore of Yorgrim, correct?” Trygve interjected. “Is Fromond still your quartermaster?”

“Fromond Soriksen retired several years ago,” Thorven replied, his tone somewhat curious. “You knew him personally?”

“I traded with him on more than one occasion,” he explained.

“Yes, well Velik Silver-Spear is our new Quartermaster,” Thorven continued.

“And the best fisherman this side of Yogrim, which isn’t saying much I suppose,” Ralof laughed. “But I hope you like salmon.”

After unlatching their horses, they made their way up the shore and within an hour came upon the camp. It was dark when they arrived, but the camp was well lit by a fire around which four soldiers were sitting. They unloaded tents, bedrolls, some food, and various sundries for the evening.

“Ralof! Thorven!” a large man, dressed in a blacksmith’s apron strode over. “What news from Windhelm? Who is this?”

“Velik Silver-Heart! It is with great pleasure to introduce you to Elspeth, the Dragonborn,” Ralof was beaming so hard, Elspeth thought his face might crack. “And these are her companions. Her housecarl, Lydia. And Trygve.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Elspeth and the others nodded politely, shifting their satchels around as they waited through the introduction.

“Elspeth? Not…” He studied her intently. “Is the woman from Helgen? This little speck of a lass?” He laughed.

“Don’t let her size fool you!” said Ralof, laughing heartily. “I told you about the magic.”

“You did indeed,” he grinned. “And also Dragonborn. Who knew this clodpoll would keep such important company? Grub should be ready soon. I hope you brought more mead.”

Ralof nodded, but before he could reply, Lydia piped up. “We brought fresh bread and cheese to share.”

As they made their way around, Elspeth could hear Trygve mumbling that the cheese was meant to last through their trip to the Rift and though he didn’t mind, he wouldn’t abide any complaints about his dried venison.

“Blah blah blah Trygve, try to enjoy a little Nord hospitality for once,” Lydia replied, dropping her pack on the ground on the far right side of the camp. “Is this okay Ralof?”

“Aye, make yourselves comfortable and join us by the fire when you’re ready.”

Elspeth watched him wander over to the fire. A few moments after he’d joined his comrades and the chatter grew louder, with several people awkwardly looking over and quickly away again. They got the tents up and their beds unrolled. Elspeth quickly changed out of her armor and pulled on a thick mage’s robe and a pair of wool trousers. Looking back again at the anticipating faces of the rebels, she sighed, wishing she could just roll up in her cloak and go to sleep.   She was somewhat disappointed that she and Ralof wouldn’t have much time alone to catch up. But he was so eager to introduce her, and she couldn’t deny him that.

The soldiers seemed eager to feed them, thrusting plates of salmon and baked potatoes in their hands, while Lydia cut chunks of bread and cheese and passed them around. Ralof passed bottles of mead around and when he finished, he started speaking again.

“Dragonborn and friends, welcome,” he said, gesturing around the circle. “Elspeth, Lydia, Trygve, you’ve met Velik and Thorven. This is Solvieg, Tallak, and Vald. And the little one is Rafn,” he said, pointing to a young man not much taller than Elspeth. “And that’s as formal as I get so now sit, eat. I’m sure my comrades will be shouting questions at you any moment now.”

There was some more shuffling and Elspeth settled down between Ralof and Lydia, balancing the food in her lap as she drank down some mead. With Ralof near, she felt comfortable enough but the soldiers seemed a bit wary of her, offering little more than fleeting stares, though she was pleased at the lack of uncomfortable gawking. Mostly, they seemed happy to fill her plate and pass her some mead. If anyone was ambivalent about the fact that she was a Breton, it wasn’t explicit though she supposed it was likely.

“So, Elspeth what’s it like being Dragonborn?” Rafn asked. “Did you know?”

“It’s…it’s hard to describe. It’s not like regular magic and it feels sort of strange and familiar at the same time,” she explained. “And no…I did not know. I was just as shocked as everyone else.” This of course, wasn’t entirely true.

“You’re Breton? You from High Rock then?” Vlad narrowed his eyes and Elspeth could feel Lydia stiffen a bit next to her.

“No,” Elspeth shook her head. “I grew up in Bruma.” She hoped this might ease some tension, give her some credibility on the matter of Nord culture. Still, she shoved a huge bite of potato in her mouth so she’d have a reason not to speak for a moment.

“You must be glad then,” Tallak said, “to finally be among  _real_  Nords.” Elspeth might have found this amusing, but the quiet mumbling that followed the comment was uncomfortable and tense.

“You don’t have to respond to that,” Ralof said, somewhat curtly, frowning at Tallak.

But Tallak shrugged. “Bruma’s in Cyrodiil, which makes them Imperials as far as I’m concerned.

“Boy, you ever meet a Nord from Bruma?” Thorven interjected.

“My uncle lives in Cyrodiil. Last time he came to visit, the milk-drinker wouldn’t even leave Solitude. Made my Ma bring my sick and frail grandma to see her. Fucker had meetings and silk trousers that apparently cannot withstand the air outside the gates of the city.”

“What’s your uncle’s name?” asked Elspeth.

“Thyr” he sneered. “I doubt you’ve met him. He lives in Skingraad.”

“So, not Bruma,” said Thorve angrily.

“Well…no,” he stammered. “But how different could they possibly be? Worshipping their  _eight_  divines. Cowering in the streets as the Thalmor walk by. Where’s their pride? Where’s their dignity?”

“Nords in Bruma still worship the Nine,” said Elspeth, her stomach tightening. Though she really didn’t want to have this conversation, she felt compelled to correct at least that. “And they don’t cower around the Thalmor. Of course, the Thalmor don’t come by Bruma all that often.”

“I wonder why that is?” asked Ralof.

“It’s probably the town’s proximity to Frostcrag Spire,” said Solvieg. “And all those dissident mages.”

With this comment, Elspeth’s stomach knotted even harder. She had plenty of experience casually ignoring comments about the dissident elves, though it was never particularly easy. But before she could respond, Tallak was talking again.

“Dissident elves,” he spat, speaking as if the words themselves were bitter. “What have those piss-skinned mages ever done for us? Holed up in their magic towers…writing letters?”

“Boy, if you don’t stop running your mouth, I will do it for you,” Thorven interjected. “You’d do well to remember, Evangeline Sigeweald was the only one with balls enough to stand up to Mede after the war. Told him he could stick that treaty where the sun don’t shine. Almost brought the rest of the Elder council along, ‘til she lost everything.”

Overwhelmed with a mix of gratitude and bewilderment, it took Elspeth every ounce of restraint she possessed not to leap up and throw her arms around the scraggly old Stormcloak.

“Well, I didn’t know about that,” Tallak shot back. “How could I know about that?”

“Wouldn’t kill ya to talk to someone who fought in the war from time to time,” he replied. “Anyway, if there is ANYONE on this divines-forsaken planet with even a chance against the Thalmor, it’s her.”

“Is she goin’ help us then? With the Thamor after we’re done with the Empire?” Though he lacked Tallak’s bitterness, Vald seemed no less skeptical.

“Maybe if you’re very polite,” Thorven scowled.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Solveig said. “I got nuthin’ against mages. But the college hasn’t done squat for Skyrim.”

“Why would they?” asked Tallak, who was still angry. “There’s a Thalmor agent up there, runs the whole place.”

“You mean, Ancano?” asked Elspeth, jerking her head up. The mention of her mother and the dissident elves was bad enough, but she knew enough to keep her mouth shut about it. But this was different. Quaranir’s words about currying favor among the Nords rang in her ears and it behooved her to say something. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she sputtered, fighting back a lump in her throat as she thought about Savos and Mirabelle, and just how close they’d came to losing everything to Ancano’s madness.

“Well why don’t you enlighten me?” Tallak demanded.

Elspeth, now feeling foolish as well as angry, felt her face grow warm. How on Nirn could she explain everything that had happened; where did she begin?

“The Thalmor agent is dead,” Trygve interrupted.

Then again, it didn’t have to be more complicated than that and for just a moment she hated Trygve just a little less for sensing her discomfort and speaking up. “Yep,” she nodded, “Trygve killed him.”

Trygve cleared his throat. “The college was never under Thalmor control,” he explained as everyone’s gaze turned toward him, mumbling things in approval. Next to her, Lydia let out a sigh relief.

“They just don’t care for politics.” Trygve shrugged.

There was grumbling again, but Thorven interrupted. “Can’t blame ‘em for that.”

With this the soldiers returned to their mead, resuming quiet conversations occasionally interrupted by laughter and grunts. And though the tension in the camp had lessened considerably, Elspeth was still uncomfortable. Exactly what, she wondered, was she supposed to be doing in these situations on behalf of the college?

“I need some air,” she said as she stood and left the campfire, feeling everyone’s eyes on her as she stepped away. Ignoring them, she walked quickly down the path toward the lake, pulling her cloak tightly around her body and stopping only when she heard hurried footsteps and someone calling out behind her.

“Elspeth, wait up,” Ralof pleaded. “Elspeth, I’m so sorry. Tallak’s got a huge chip on his shoulder and the others—”

“Oh Ralof no…please, don’t apologize,” she said, turning to face him. He looked distressed and she didn’t want that from him.

“It’s just…well, not all soldiers are…well, not all very nice. And a lot of them, like Ulfric are not expecting the Dragonborn to be a tiny Breton mage. They…they want a warrior, a—”

“I am a warrior,” she interjected.

“That you are,” he said. “It’s just going to take some getting used to.”

Elspeth shrugged, “I’m not used to it. I suppose I can’t expect much from anyone else.”

“Has it been really difficult?” he asked.

What kind of question was that, she wondered. Though she softened a bit as she realized he was just worried. “Yes,” she said. “It’s been awful. But then…it hasn’t.”

“Well, you were prepared better than most eh? I don’t know many Bretons been training since they were young.”  
“How many Bretons do you know?” she asked, chuckling a little. “It’s all overwhelming. For better or worse, it’s that. And it’s…well, it’s sort of lonely I guess.” As they followed the icy path, Elspeth stepped closer so that their arms were touching.

“You’ve got companions though,” Ralof put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her gently. “Though sometimes that’s not what it’s about.” He seemed sort of wistful for a moment.

That she didn’t have to explain warmed her heart and she leaned into his embrace. Smiling, he leaned down and was about to plant a gentle kiss atop her head when they were interrupted by deep gnawing grunts and bones cracking. Gasping, they looked up. Sitting by a nearby cave was a frost troll gorging himself on a corpse.

“Shit,” Elspeth gasped and gripped Ralof’s arm. “Step back,” she whispered. “Quietly.”

But it was too late and within moments, the troll had dropped the bloody bones, now nearly picked clean, and charged forward, roaring.

Ralof instinctively pushed Elspeth back as he raised his axe, momentarily forgetting that Elspeth did not quite require such protection **.**  Rolling her eyes, Elspeth stepped to the side and aimed a powerful fire spell at the troll, who bellowed and screech as he staggered back. Ralof leaped forward, his axe held high.

“Ralof, no!” Elspeth screamed. The troll was wounded by the spell, but still had plenty of fight in him. As the Nord joined in the fray, he stepped right into Elspeth’s line of fire and in the time it took her to step up again, the troll had struck and knocked Ralof to the ground. Elspeth couldn’t tell if it was the crunch of icy snow or the sound of her friend’s cracked skull against the rocky path where he fell. Roaring, she lunged forward with her weapon drawn. Another fire spell let her get close enough so that when she shouted, he crashed into the side of the cave, collapsing close enough that she could drive her sword into his neck.

Elspeth rushed over to Ralof who was groaning as he came to. “Hold on,” she said, looking him over. Nothing appeared broken, but she had to be sure and she was certain Ralof would try to play it tough.

“I’m fine,” he said, though he grunted loudly and clutched his side as sat up. “Just some cracked ribs, I think.”

“I’m going to check out the cave,” she said. Near the entrance, a detect life spell showed the cave to be empty. “Can you walk?”

He nodded as he eased himself up and limped over. The cave was small, but there was a bedroll and some blankets, a satchel with food and potions, and a fire pit—likely the property of the troll’s dinner. It was unpleasant and morbid to think about, but Elspeth was grateful for the supplies. She gestured for Ralof to settle down on the bedroll and once she had a fire going, she rifled through the satchel until she found a healing potion.

Ralof was twisting out of his cuirass and trying not to wince in pain when Elspeth knelt by him. “Let me,” she said. She removed the armor and lifted his tunic exposing a considerable about of bruising. “This healing spell isn’t very strong,” she explained, as she placed her hands over his ribs. “There’s an elixir too, which should help. But it’ll be uncomfortable for a while. Trygve could heal it right up, but unfortunately he’s not here.”

Ralof snorted, “I don’t consider that unfortunate.” He took the elixir she offered and frowned as he swallowed.

“No, I suppose we don’t need him,” she sighed a little as she finished up, gently pulling the tunic down. She looked around awkwardly, trying to figure out where she should settle down. The floor was covered with rocks and exposed Dwemer piping. “This place must connected with one of the ruins,” she said.

“Here,” he said, leaning up. “You take the bedroll and I can—”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’ll just set up one of these blankets. You sit back.”

She laid out the blanket next to the bedroll and lay back though she wasn’t tired at all. She wanted to talk and tell him everything, but she didn’t want to disturb him if he needed rest. Lying there with her hands over her stomach, she stared upward, following the flickering light across the copper pipes and knotted roots along the ceiling.

Ralof was shifting around next to her and before she could ask if he needed more room, he’d rolled on to his uninjured side and was looking down at her, his pale face made amber by the fire. He looked warm, which made Elspeth want to curl into his chest though that would no doubt be unbearably uncomfortable for him. Still, she edged a little closer, if she could just rest here, maybe…

“Elspeth,” he began, interrupting her thoughts “Did you shout at that troll?”

“You saw that?” She was surprised he saw anything as he’d been knocked over rather hard.

“Not really…just when I was opening my eyes, the troll was being tossed back, like a fucking rag doll.” He was undoubtedly impressed.

“Yeah, that was a shout. I learned it from the Greybeards.”

“Well, I’m sorry I missed it,” he said, his tone lowering slightly. “Maybe I could make you shout again.”

Her eyes widened and stomach fluttered, but before she could respond, Ralof ran his hand lightly through her hair and, gripping her neck, pressed his lips roughly to hers. She gasped. What on Nirn was he doing? But instead of pulling away, she gave in. For just a moment, she felt the weight of all the things she wanted to confide simply lift away and she wanted to savor that, if only for a moment.

It was wrong; she knew this. But the guilt she imagined would overwhelm her, that inner conflict, it simply wasn’t there. Instead, as she drew her arm around his neck, their relationship came into sharp focus. He had been there for the single most terrifying event in her life. And now, once again with the world feeling hopeless and frightening and bleak, he was there. Right or wrong, she wanted him. It wasn’t love—though she was so very fond of him. And it wasn’t simply lust driving her into his arms and bed—if you could call the bedroll and scratchy wool blanket that.

It was solace.

Groaning, she sought out his tongue with hers and brought her hands to his head, running his fingers through the tangles in his hair. Ralof wasted no time loosening her belt and undoing her robe. She tugged at his tunic and he leaned back, grunting slightly and breathing through the pain in his ribs, something he soon forget as he looked down at Elspeth who by now had slipped out of her robe and was wiggling out her of pants and underclothes. He yanked his clothes off, sat back on his heels and looked her over.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

Ralof shook his head, “I just wanted to look at you.”

“Oh really?” She cocked her head a little.

“You…you look incredible.”

“For a Breton?” she smirked, leaning up on her elbows.

At this he simply chuckled and leaned forward, kissing her aggressively as she pulled him back toward her, running her hands down his back and not-so-gently grabbing his backside. She groaned as he placed kisses along her collarbone and shuddered as a wisp of cool air came between them and then again as she felt the warmth of his skin against hers.

“Elspeth,” he rasped into her neck, his fingers trailing along the top of her thigh. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

His voice was not jarring, though she found it pulling her out of the moment. To remedy this, she kissed him and wrapped her legs around his, arching her back to urge him on. But Ralof was vocal and with every, “yeah, that’s it” she found her mind wandering, until she was right back to where she was when she discovered sex in her adolescence, distracted and confused. Forcing everything else out of her mind, she focused on Ralof. Trying to lose herself in the rhythm of his thrusts, she moaned and brought her leg up, bumping his ribs.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, as he cried out in pain, adding sheer mortification to her disconcertion.

“It’s all right,” he said as he continued to grind into her. “Are you…okay?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly. Lying with him felt good, but her mind was simply elsewhere: thoughts of Onmund, Trygve, the roots on the ceiling, even her mother, intertwined with those of Ralof and his body, heavy against hers. Taking care not to hurt him again, she wrapped her legs around his waist, squeezing as hard as she could. “Ralof,” she cried out, over and over again as she snapped her hips into his.   Her finish was dull, but Ralof came hard, his body held stiff for what seemed like an eternity until he collapsed, sweaty and limp, on top of her.

After a few quiet moments, he brought his head up and looked at her, smiling as he moved wisps of hair out of her face. He kissed her gently before they got up to find their clothing. Elspeth dressed slowly, trying not to think too much. Lying down again, she looked over as returned to the bedroll, a shit-eating grin on his face. Chucking softly, she shook her head. As she lay back down, he put his arm around her. It took a while, but soon she slept soundly in crook of his arm, leaving the inevitable onslaught of guilt and regret for another time.


	26. Ready to Arrive: Part One

This chapter picks up from [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3710686/chapters/18412666).

 

_Arkay says: Honor the earth, its creatures, and the spirits, living and dead. Guard and tend the bounties of the mortal world, and do not profane the spirits of the dead._

_~ The Ten Commands of the Nine Divines_

“I said no.”

Xeri rubbed the back of her neck. She wasn’t used to this. In Cyrodiil, when Xeri Tharys demanded something, it was hers. But here in Castle Dour, she had no clout, no connections. All she had was a made up story and a strong admonishment from Nerussa forbidding any physical altercations. On this last point she conceded—reluctantly. Initially, Nerussa was meant to contact Jarl Elisif’s court but the number of Thalmor seen wandering in the city put Xeri in the castle in her stead.

“Look,” she said, tossing a coinpurse on the table. “All I’m asking for is a location. A public location. Not his secret encampment..”

But the young Auxiliary would not budge. Xeri rolled her eyes, irritated that she would have to pack up and wait out this guy’s shift in the Winking Skeever. Perhaps the next soldier would be more easily influenced, a young lad or lass from some poverty stricken village for who the temptation of that much coin would be too much to resist. In Skyrim of all places, this soldier had to be an exception. If not, they would have to leave and seek Legion assistance in High Rock or worse, Cyrodiil.

“If you don’t leave, I’ll have you removed.”  
“That won’t be necessary,” she replied, angrily hoisting her satchel over her shoulder. She turned to leave, but her exit was interrupted.

“Xery Tharys! Well, I’ll be damned.”

Xeri turned and looked intently at the Nord woman calling her name. It took a few moments, but she soon recognized her.

“Captain Rikke,” she replied.

“ _Legate_  Rikke,” she said, stepping toward the Dunmer. “What on Nirn are you doing all the way up here? Last I heard you were breaking priests out of prison and shacking up with dissident mages.”

“Just an errand,” she explained. “I’ve got a letter to deliver to a Legion officer. Personally, of course.”

“On behalf of the dissident mages?” Rikke asked, narrowing her eyes toward the Dunmer.

“Oh no, I haven’t been associated with the in over a decade,” she lied. “Been working round Bruma, occasionally Imperial City. Some rich noble hired me to bring the officer a missive. Nothing nefarious as far as I can tell, just that I am to deliver it personally.” Nobles from Cyrodiil had business dealings with everyone. Invoking them in such a tale would hopefully not raise too many suspicions.

“And did you get the information you were seeking?” She frowned and looked back toward the soldier who had denied Xeri’s request.

“As a matter of fact, I did not.”

“And yet my soldier still stands,” Rikke observed. “You’ve changed.”

“Nonsense,” Xeri protested. “I’m just exercising a but of restraint.”

Rikke grunted, stifling her laughter a bit as she looked at the bewildered soldier. “I’ll take care of this,” she said. She paused and continued to observe Xeri for a few more moments. She had no reason to believe the Dunmer meant the Legion any harm. However, that did not preclude other trouble. “Who are you looking for?”

Xeri pulled a slip of paper out of her pocket and glanced at it casually. “General Falx Carius.”

“Falx Carius?” Rikke furrowed her brow. “A general? I don’t know that name. He must be retired.” She gestured toward the door behind where the soldier had been standing. “Come this way.”

She led Xeri down a narrow stone stairway into a tiny, poorly lit office with small desk, shelves lined with dusty leather-bound ledgers, and a card catalog cabinet covering an entire wall. Rikke scanned the labels on the cabinet and pulled out a long drawer that was stuffed with yellowing cards. She quickly filed through the cards until she found the one she was looking for. But after inspecting the card she’d removed, she returned it and checked several more drawers.

“Well that’s strange….” Her voice trailed off as she turned back to the first drawer and once again selected the card she originally pulled. Crossing the room, she pulled a ledger from the shelf and read over several pages, her expression growing increasingly perplexed.

“What is it?”

“Well, the only Falx Carius we have on record was stationed at Fort Frostmoth,” she explained, pausing to turn the ledger toward Xeri. “Almost two hundred years ago.”

Xeri had not understood Nerussa’s translation of their latest directive, but that the trial of Arkay, Lord of the Wheel of Life, might direct the group to a long-dead Legion officer was not all that surprising. “Fort Frostmoth, you say?” That fort was a decrepit mess the last time I was in Solstheim.”

“I’m not surprised. The Legion hasn’t had a presence on the island since…well, since about the time of this General.” At this Rikke looked even more perplexed. “You’ll just have to relay that to your noble.” She shrugged.

“Is there a ship heading to Solstheim?”

“By way of Windhelm, yes. But wait, you’re still going to the fort?”

Xeri only nodded and Rikke chose not to ask why. “Just so you know, solitude is going to be swarming with Thalmor in the next couple of days,” she explained.

“A delegation? Is this a regular thing?”

Rikke furrowed her brow and shook her head slowly. “It came as quite a surprise. The Dominion’s presence in Skyrim is small, but not insignificant. First Ambassador Elenwen keeps an office here in the castle, but spends most of her time at the Embassy up north.” She paused for a moment, clearing her throat before continuing and bringing her voice down. “This is unusual. But so are the circumstances bringing the delegation here.”

“What happened?”

“A patrol happened upon a fort the Thalmor were occupying.[ Every mer in there was slaughtered](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1565681/chapters/7124822),” she said, her voice deliberately steady, as if she was withholding her feelings on the matter.

“The Stormcloaks?”

“Perhaps, but not likely.” Rikke shook her head. “Right now their best guess is the dissident mages. If not from Cyrodiil, then perhaps High Rock.”

Though she maintained her composure, Xeri felt her body grow tense. “Where was this fort?” she asked.

“A bit west from here, along the coast,” she replied. “Why?”

“So, they’re heading there? Leaving the road from Dragon Bridge clear?”

The legate studied the mer carefully, a bit perplexed by her interest in the Thalmor’s movement. Then again, given her past involvement with the mages, it made sense that she would be wary. She shook her head. “Not likely. We’ve not been apprised of their plans but as long as they believe the dissidents were behind the attack, they’ll have patrols from here to the college.

At this the normally impassive Xeri gasped and though she was quick to recover her formal and serious expression, Rikke immediately grew suspicious. Xeri’s notoriety as a cunning warrior, always two steps ahead of her enemies preceded her. Surely the Thalmor weren’t enough to shake the indomitable Dunmer. There had to be something else.

The two of them stared at each other for a bit, neither one giving in to the other’s glare. With her empath abilities, Xeri should have had an advantage, but the Nord betrayed nothing other than a cold detachment that the Dunmer envied—if only for a moment.

Rikke finally broke the silence. “What is it you want Xeri?”

“I need safe passage to Solstheim, one that avoids the Thalmor entirely.”

That was no small favor. Rikke rubbed her temples. Every instinct she possessed indicated she should just turn the woman away, but she also knew that Xeri had been instrumental in helping Thalmor prisoners, priests and priestesses of Talos, escape Cyrodiil following the signing of the Concordant. She couldn’t simply ignore her plea, but she had questions.

“Xeri we get briefings. The Thalmor aren’t concerned with stragglers from the war, however notorious they may have been at one time. Unless you’re shlepping Evangeline Sigeweald around, I doubt you have anything to worry about.” She was exaggerating, of course, hoping that such an absurd statement would prompt Xeri to reassure her that her mission was far less nefarious. But no reassurance came.

“And if I was?” Though she was not one to let her guard down, Xeri knew that if she was going to be begging favors, she couldn’t keep this secret.

“Are you kidding me? But you just said—”

“Well, I lied,” Xeri replied. “Can you blame me?” She paused, trying to read Rikke’s emotional state. However, the stoic Nord had neither sympathy nor scorn.

“Was the attack orchestrated by the dissidents?”

“Of course not!” Xeri exclaimed and then thought for a moment. “Actually, I don’t know. I’ve only recently become reacquainted with Evangeline. We aren’t in Skyrim on behalf of the resistance.”

“That will hardly matter to the Thalmor.” Rikke glowered and let out a deep breath as she considered her options. As the military governor, General Tulllius would be forced to arrest Evangeline. This would curry a great deal of favor with the local Thalmor authorities, possibly decreasing their presence in Skyrim, which would, in turn, calm the anxieties of the Nords. But at what cost? And if word got out that the Legion was responsible for the incarceration of someone as notoriously anti-Thalmor as Evangeline, would that not simply bolster Ulfric’s claim, sending ambivalent Nords into his ranks? The most pragmatic course of action would be to simply turn Xeri and her companions out to fend for themselves. But that did not sit well with her either.

“All right,” she said, after thinking the matter over some more. “I can get you a boat to Windhelm tomorrow at midnight. Take the road by the sawmill north until you come to a small dock. A man named Erikur, a local businessman and one of Elisif’s thanes will meet you there.”

Xeri, who was expecting no less than a swift rejection and a warner never to show her face in Solitude again, was simply shocked. “Thank you,” she said. “Is there anything—”

“Just don’t make me regret this.”

*****

“Pirates!” whispered Evangeline as Erikur introduced them to Volf, captain of the Dainty Sload.

“If you’ve a problem with my associates, you can get yourself to Windhelm.” Erikur sneered. “I don’t know why the Legate chose to waste a favor on your, but I have no problem turning you out on your own. This is your best chance to get out of the city and avoid the Thalmor.”

“But of course,” Nerussa interjected, grinning awkwardly. “Please excuse us; we are not used to traveling under such circumstances. It’s been a bit tiring.”

“Of that I have no doubt” he replied as he stepped aside.

With some of the tension abated, they boarded the ship and Volf’s first mate led them down to their quarters.

“You get the luxury suite.” He laughed, gesturing to the closet-sized room with a single bench and a pile of ragged wool blankets. “Ya need anything, get one of the men and bring a bit of coin. The boys’ll do extra work, but they ain’t doin’ no favors. Clear?”

The women nodded and crowded into the room, shaking out the blankets and positioning themselves as best they could on the bench. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d slept in close, uncomfortable quarters. But it was the least amount of control they’d exercised over their surroundings and that did not sit well with either Evangeline or Xeri. Nerussa was a bit more optimistic. At the very least, she was relieved to be getting away from Solitude.

“It’ll be an adventure!” she teased, pulling a scratchy, moldy smelling blanket over her shoulders and nestling herself between the others.

“We’re not children,” Evangeline said, grunting as she wedged herself between the Altmer and the wall. They left Xeri on the end of the bench nearest the door, in case there was any trouble.

Xeri grunted and leaned forward, resting her bent arm on her knee, before looking back over. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable trip. “Morrowind is neutral territory—well, at least with respect to your exile,” she said, looking at Evangeline. “You can use your name there, though that may be unwise.”

“You have Dunmer allies, no?” asked Nerussa, recalling the banners that hung in Frostcrag Spire.

“Not in House Redoran or any of the Great Houses for that matter,” Evangeline explained. “Our allies are small groups, newer Tongs. Mostly set up by and for Dunmer Blades to keep them safe from the Thalmor after the war. Most of the Dunmer Blades were recruited from House Hlaluu so long ago and with no House to go back to, they organized, operating mostly underground—apart from those who openly declared allegiance with the dissidents.”

“I wonder why that hasn’t triggered suspicion from the Thalmor?” Nerussa wondered.

“Morrowind has so many nomadic groups and Tongs—they wouldn’t be much of a threat, I suppose,” Xeri replied. “No doubt the Thalmor is keeping an eye on the Great Houses. And none of the Great Houses give a shit about any Dunmer Blades, except to denounce them along with Hlaluu and any other Imperial sympathizers.”

“Those Dunmer Blades must be ancient.”

“Quite a few of them were.” Evangeline chuckled lightly before recovering her more serious expression. “So, we keep our false names in Solstheim.”

“You will,” Xeri replied. “I know Elder Othreloth, the priest in the temple there. I think I will pay him a visit. Knowing someone locally might help ease tensions.”

“An old friend of yours?” asked Evangeline, suddenly very curious. Xeri rarely spoke of past acquaintances, especially ones from Morrowind.

“My grandmother’s actually.” She smirked. “Old Balam brought me to see him, to see if I might have her gift. He was the one to break her heart with the news that I did not.”

Nerussa laughed. “If only she could see you now.”

“Will you tell this elder of your visions?” asked Evangeline.

“I think I will,” she replied. “Perhaps not all the details of Elspeth’s ancestry and your family.”

With this the women the women stopped conversing and tried, in vain, to settle into more restful positions. The trip was long and they spent their waking and sleeping hours in the same upright and cramped position as attempts to take more than an occasional break outside their uncomfortable quarters to stretch and relieve themselves were met with hostile stares from the crew.

By the time they reached Windhelm, Nerussa’s hips had stiffened to the point where she couldn’t walk and was mortified when Xeri, spurred on by Volf’s impatience, picked up and tossed the Altmer over her shoulder to carry her to the docks. They hoped their arrival would mean a bed and a meal consisting of something hearty and warm. But Gjaland Salt-Sage, captain of the Northern Maiden, made very few trips to Solstheim and was leaving a few hours from when they arrived, giving them just enough time to replenish their supplies. There was a bit more room on this second vessel and it was stocked for passengers as well as crew, so they did not have to ration their water and food supplies quite so rigidly.

Still, this voyage was no less miserable than the previous one. The already frigid temperatures dropped even more the further away from Skyrim’s shore they sailed. Rough waves tossed the boat as ice floes smacked the hull so that by the end of the trip, Evangeline was so dizzy and her head so sore, she was certain she’d suffered a concussion at some point.

They arrived just under a week later, weary and nauseated, and Nerussa could not recall a time when the subtle smell of ash, which permeated the island, was so comforting. Captain Salt-Sage was far less aggressive than the pirates in evicting them from the boat. However, they wasted no time in disembarking, their movements were labored and awkward, muscles tight and joints cracking as they limped toward the end of the dock where a Dunmer dressed in fine clothing and several guards were waiting.

“Good day! I am Adril Adrano, second councilor of Raven Rock.” The finely dressed Dunmer was formal and exacting in his greeting. “I don’t recognize you, so I’ll assume this is your first visit to Raven Rock, outlander. State your intentions.”

Xeri stepped forward, a knowing smirk on her face. “Ah, but this is not my first visit,” she explained. “I came here many years ago. My name is Xeri Tharys, my family is well acquainted with Elder Othreloth. And these are my companions—“

Adrano’s eyes widened at the mention of her name and his authoritative demeanor changed quickly from formal to aggressive. “Seize her,” he commanded and the guards, now flanking Xeri, grabbed her.

“What the fuck?” Xeri exclaimed while the other women looked on **.**  “You have made a mistake.” She sneered angrily at her captors, her body tightening though she did not struggle.

“I doubt that,” the councilor replied. “Take her to the barracks.” He watched them lead Xeri away for a few moments before turning to Evangeline and Nerussa. “And who might you be?”

“Has that womer committed a crime?” Evangeline asked, her tone decidedly more exacting and formal than usual.

“Who are you?” The councilor was stern and it was clear that he was not about to entertain their questions.

“Forgive me,” she replied. “My name is Caterine Louvier and this is Harinde, scholars from Cyrodiil. We hired this Dunmer in Bruma to aid us on an expedition to study the ruins of Fort Frostmoth and I must say, I am quite concerned about this turn of events.” She frowned and placed her hand over her chest, as if bile were rising in her throat at the sudden and unexpected association with this criminal element. “We are both highly regarded and this is not an association we desire.”

Arano raised his eyebrows, uncertain what to make of these two. He trusted no one, but he had no reason to detain them either. “Well, I am very sorry that you found yourself involved in this. Though, I am certain you will be able to find a mercenary at the Retching Netch to suit your needs.” He crossed his arms and studied them. “And just so we’re clear, we’ll still be keeping an eye on you. As we would anyone in such a situation.”

“We wouldn’t have it any other way,” she replied, employing her most conciliatory tone as Nerussa nodded in agreement. “And if there are no other concerns, please pardon us. We have had the most dreadful journey.”

“Of course,” Arano said, turning and gesturing toward the town. “The tavern is the first building on the left when you enter the village center.”

They nodded and strode forward, moving with poise and confidence and not once breaking comportment until they closed the door of their room, at which point they simply collapsed on the bed in a fit of uncomfortable laughter. However, as the gravity of the situation settled in, they turned serious again.

“Mara have mercy! Nerussa, what has she done? Did she say anything to you about this?”

“No, but why would she? Xeri has never been forthcoming about her past.”

“Xeri’s not stupid,” Evangeline replied after musing a bit. “She never would have introduced herself if she thought there was a chance she’d be detained like that.” She sat forward and rubbed her head, as she tried to determine their next step. They had apparently avoided suspicion but any inquiry into Xeri’s status would no doubt undermine their charade. “Let’s rest a bit. Then think about how we might get some information on Xeri.”

After such an excruciating journey, both women slept deeply, awaking late that afternoon. Nerussa was in quite a bit of pain, her muscles still cramped. So, Evangeline left her to sleep some more and went out to the common area and tavern, where she sat at the bar.

“Greetings outlander, I trust you found your accommodations satisfactory.” Geldis Sadri, the Netch’s publican, grinned. “Care for a drink? We’ve got a running special. Sadri’s Sujamma, the finest in all of Morrowind.”

Evangeline grinned. She never cared much for Dunmer liquors. They tended to be potent and extremely bitter. But as she had a special place in her heart for sujamma, she nodded and Geldis poured her a generous shot. Evangeline drank it quickly, shuddering as the drink sent chills through her body, biting back at her jaw.

“Chaser?” he asked.

“Yes please,” she croaked, holding her hand over her mouth.

Geldis laughed and poured her a cup of ale. “This is imported; it’ll help.”

“The sujamma was quite good actually,” she replied after taking a long drink of the sharp, but decidedly smoother ale. “More spicy than bitter, but still packs a punch.”

“It’s my secret recipe,” he explained. “Anything else?”

“Indeed,” she said, pulling a fat coin purse from her pocket and plopping it on the counter. After taking a quick glance around the room, she leaned in slightly. “Can you tell me, which if these young guards might be somewhat—”

“Corruptible?” he interrupted, a knowing smirk on his face. “Belas Turar. Mother’s sick. Father’s dead. Family’s got a boatload of debt.” He gestured to a guard sitting alone across the room. “Here, this will help facilitate your conversation.” He pulled a bottle of matze onto the counter.

“I’ll take some more of your sujamma too.” Evangeline pulled enough coin from her purse for the drinks and also for his trouble. She strode across the bar and at Belas’ table, placed both drinks firmly down. “Might I sit here?” she asked, a sly grin on her face.

“Ah…yes, of course, but I don’t—“ He held his hand up to protest something, the drink or what he perceived to be her intentions.

“It’s not that” she said as she took a seat and nudged the drink closer to him. “I’ve got a business proposal.”

He looked at her suspiciously, but accepted the drink with a courteous nod, prompting her to continue as he sipped at the matze.

Evangeline once again took the coinpurse out of her pocket and placed it on the table between them. “That is yours,” she began, “if you wouldn’t mind answering a couple of questions.”

Belas swallowed and nodded. “If I can help, I will.”

“There’s a prisoner, a Dunmer by the name of Xeri Tharys who was taken from the docks earlier today. I need you to tell me everything you know about why she was taken.”

The guard furrowed his brow a bit. “Prisoner information isn’t always confidential. You might have asked Captain Veleth,” he replied.

“I require some discretion,” Evangeline explained. “I would rather keep my curiosity quiet for now.” She slid the coinpurse toward him, but kept her fingers pressed firmly on the fabric.

He nodded. “Well, I’m afraid there’s not much to tell. For some time now, there have been threats against Lleril Morvayn. Adril Arano, Morvayn’s second counselor, has learned of a House Hlaluu plot to have Morvayn killed. From what I understand, this Xeri Tharys has extensive connections with them.” Belas’ tone was tinged with derision at the mention of of the former Great House.

Evangeling frowned. Xeri’s family was from Narsis, which was once the capital of House Hlaluu. Everyone who ever lived there could be connected in some way. But whatever ties she had surely must have been severed. Xeri left Morrowind and most its customs long ago. “Can you get me in to see her? Discreetly?” With this she removed her hand from the coinpurse, but leaned forward, keeping her eyes fixed on the guard.

Belas thought for a moment. His posture was firm, but Evangeline could tell he was unsettled. Indeed, when he spoke, his apprehension was apparent **.**

“With some arrangements, I might be able bring you in on my next night rotation, which is on Fredas.”

Five days. She groaned and shook her head. “I can’t wait that long.” Sitting back, she gripped her forehead in her fingertips and rubbed. She might have asked about his colleagues, but she didn’t want to involve any more guards in this and they would be short on coin if they kept this up. “Thank you for your help,” she said finally, offering a brief nod.

“You change your mind; I’ll be back here tomorrow.” He spoke with a bit more confidence now.

She stood and returned to the counter, where she procured a bottle of wine and a large bowl of yam and horker stew with two spoons. Back in their room, Nerussa was awake and eagerly accepted the food and drink, tucking into her share as Evangeline explained what little she knew of Xeri’s situation and how they should proceed.

“We’ll go Fort Frostmoth tomorrow,” she said. “We can’t wait a week to figure her shit out.”

“That’s a terrible idea.” Nerussa was confused. “You do realize the three of us are bound to these trials together

“I haven’t forgotten,” she replied, her brow furrowed. “But we might have to consider that Xeri’s in a lot of trouble here, and we may have to proceed without her.”

“How is that possible? We can’t abandon her. Øyvind was quite clear that—”

“That we were bound together for the duration of the trials, yes. But not literally, I don’t think.” Evangeline paced the room for a bit before kneeling before Nerussa, looking at her intently. “Nerussa, you are the scholar here, an expert on the history and the theology. For a moment, I need you to consider the possible implications of moving forward on this particular task without Xeri.”

Nerussa wiped her mouth and took a long drink of wine. Then she stood and moved past Evangeline, taking the chair in the far corner of the room, where she sat for a long time in a state that was both contemplative and meditative. On the one hand, she had almost two decades of knowledge to consider. And on the other, she needed to take care that her unrelenting hopefulness would not cloud her judgment. Evangeline had retired to the bed and was dozing off when she finally spoke again.

“Failure to complete the trials  _for any reason_  will leave us in the service of the Divines for all of eternity. I think that is the overriding principle here. If she lingers in prison forever or dies, her soul is still bound to ours.” She let out a sigh. “Remember what Danica said, that these are not just a series of tasks. We are being judged every step of the way. Do we wait—divines know how long—for our warrior, so we can proceed with less fear? Or do we press on?”

“The divines delight in human folly. It behooves us not to be stupid. Or cowardly. Or indolent.” Evangeline sighed. “So…then?”

“Tomorrow, we move on to Fort Frostmoth.”

_To be continued…._


	27. Ready to Arrive: Part Two

It was true what they said, Solstheim didn’t have weather, just ash. The women pulled their scarves tighter around their faces as they trudged toward the fort. The lulls in the storms were long enough to gain some momentum, but when the winds blew, the ash whipped around them, settling into the cracks and creases in their clothing and skin. It was terribly unpleasant and Evangeline was beginning to regret pushing them to go to the Fort.

“I’m sorry,” she said, during one particularly quiet lull during which they stopped to rehydrate. “We should have waited for Xeri.”

“Why? It’s not like she could have made this any easier. If anything, she would have berated us and our delicate non-Dunmer sensibilities.” Nerussa paused, smirking a little. “And then, you know, saved our skins from whatever life threatening situation we will no doubt find ourselves in.”

Evangeline chuckled and gestured toward a dilapidated building in the distance. “That’s the old farm. The fort’s not too far east after that.” She didn’t wait for Nerussa to respond before moving forward.

Nerussa adjusted her satchel and hurried after the other woman, losing her as another ash squall picked up. Dammit, she thought as the thick dust pricked her face. She slowed her pace, squinting with an arm over her eyes, her slight now completely blocked. She shuffled along like this until she crashed into Evangeline.

“This way, back over here.” Evangeline grabbed Nerussa’s arm and dragged her behind a large fallen tree. “Do you see anything strange?”

“I can’t see anything,” she replied. “It’s just ash and more ash and—wait, what is that?” Her gaze fell back in the direction of the dilapidated farm, where the ash appeared to be snowballing into larger stones and boulders. “Is the ash coming alive?”

Evangeline nodded. “I’m heading over there. You stay put.”

“What! No, this is insane. We scouted the area, found it too dangers to proceed. And now we shall return to await the release of the prisoner Xeri Tharys.”

But Evangeline wasn’t listening. “There, look!” She pointed at a random group of the creatures. Nerussa wasn’t interested; she was confused as to why they weren’t already on their way back to Raven Rock and irritated at Evangeline’s dogged persistence toward their demise. After a few moments, she stopped following and simply watched. Between the gusts of ash, she could make out several Redoran guards fighting. And as the winds died down, she could hear the creatures, cringing at the sounds of metal and bonemold clashing against the molten rock comprising the monster’s bodies—the peculiar combination of magic and mineral set her teeth on edge.

The guards, no doubt seasoned Redoran warriors, were tough, but they were outnumbered and the creatures grew stronger with each gust. Evangeling had stopped as well and Nerussa prayed she’d seen some sense. But no, she was getting ready to fight. Nerussa gasped as she saw Evangeline brace her entire body. She knew what was about the happen. The Breton meant to bring forth something from Oblivion in an attempt to end the fight. Nerussa, keeping low and out of sight, started to make her way closer, terrified but knowing that she too had to be ready.

Evangeline was a highly skilled Conjuration mage but for as useful as an atronach was in battle, there was always a moment in the process of casting, where the mage’s soul was literally caught in Oblivion, vulnerable to being stuck there, should they die at that moment. With a regimen of other mages and soldiers, or with adequate privacy to cast, this was not generally a huge concern. But where Evangeline had situated herself offered no such protection.   The guards had no idea she was there and there was no barrier she could use to shield herself that was close enough to the skirmish.

“Well shit.” Nerussa sucked in a breath. She stepped up to Evangeline with her dagger drawn, though it was unlikely she would be much help past the few seconds it would take her friend to draw herself back to the mortal plane of Nirn.

The spell was seamless and the storm atronach that emerged was massive, an amalgam of rock, thunder, and lightening. It moved forward, its destructive gait enveloped in elegant swirls of electricity as it began its assault. The guards paused, steeling themselves for the new threat. But within moments, it was apparent that Evangeline’s abomination was not aiming for them. The monster couldn’t take care of all the ash spawn but it gave the guards a clear advantage. Nerussa tried to watch but the maelstrom kicked up by the monsters and the guards was blinding and her hood and scarf, inadequate. She felt Evangeline’s body against hers, tugging her down into a tight, protective squat.

Several moments after the dust had settled, the guards approached the women, still huddled together on the ground. The one leading the group spoke first, demanding, though not hostile in his address.

“Which one of you cast that spell?”

“That was me sera,” Evangeline replied as she stood, helping Nerussa to her feet. “I am Caterine and this is Harinde. We are on a research expedition to Fort Frostmoth to investigate what happened to a general who was once stationed there, his name was Falx Carius.” She assumed that indicating a historical, rather than arcane, interest would eliminate any remaining suspicions he might hold toward them.

But the Dunmer simply nodded. “I’m captain Modyn Veleth and I wish to thank you for your help with the Ash spawn.” He rubbed his hands together and looked around. “The creatures, they seem to be coming from the fort, and they are getting worse.” His voice lowered a bit, betraying some concern for the women. “What is your plan for advancing on the fort? Will it just be the two of you?”

 _Advancing on the fort_. That made it sound like a military operation, a perspective on this quest that Evangeline had not considered. She looked at Nerussa who appeared no less perplexed, but before either of them could respond, one of Veleth’s guards approached with a slip of paper that he handed to the captain.

Frowning, Veleth read the note before handing it to Evangeline. “This may interest you.”

_Raven Rock Stronghold,_

_My calls for the unconditional surrender of your forces and an immediate cessation of all hostilities has [sic] been ignored numerous times. I therefore have no choice but to assume your purpose on Solstheim is hostile, and to treat Raven Rock Stronghold as an enemy of the Empire. I warn you, any attempt to breach Fort Frostmoth will be met with an equal level of aggression. I will do everything in my power to wipe you and your forces off the face of Tamriel. There will be no further communications between us._

_General Falx Carius,_ _Garrison Commander, Fort Frostmoth_

“This parchment is new,” said Nerussa. “This note was written recently. It most certainly not from when Carius was garrisoned there.”

“Well this is most…unusual.” Veleth was rubbing his forehead. “I can only imagine what Councilor Morvayn is going to say when I tell him we are in open conflict with the Empire.” He thought for a moment, looking back and forth between the women, as if assessing their prowess. His expression revealed little, if any, confidence. “As this missive is addressed to Raven Rock, I will send a couple of soldiers with you.” He turned back to the guards and called out, “Ulien! Tabith!”

“I expect a full report,” he said to the soldiers. “You are to accompany and assist Caterine and Harinde on their expedition, but this is first and foremost a response to this note. So, proceed as if defending the colony.” And to the women he continued, “If you would be willing to lend any observations, I am sure the Councilor would be most appreciative and would compensate you appropriately.”

Nerussa started to nod and glanced at Evangeline, expecting to see her offering some enthusiastic agreement as a way of maintaining their scholarly ruse. But Evangeline was staring off in the distance, her face hardened and distracted. Nerussa felt it was a bit rude. “Catherine!” Nerussa addressed her firmly. “Of course will be willing to help, won’t we?” She couldn’t image what had suddenly struck Evangeline.

“Right, of course,” said Evangeline finally. “Nerussa, could I have a word with you?”

“What is it?” Nerussa spoke quietly but firmly as she joined her several feet away from the Dunmer. The last they needed was for Evangeline to lose focus.

“This is a terrible idea. We need to go back. I’ll get a job and we’ll rent the room indefinitely.”

There was a sort of desperation in Evangeline’s tone that Nerussa found disconcerting, but they didn’t have time for this. “What are you talking about?”

“We can’t have all these people tagging along, replacing Xeri. Something feels terribly wrong about this. Surely—” But she stopped and frowned. After insisting that they move forward, she had no idea how to explain why it suddenly felt so wrong.

Nerussa let out a sigh. “At this point, all we can do is move forward. Every choice engenders the next one. And I believe the Divines will no doubt judge our vacillation more harshly than our companions.

*****

“Why are they jumping?” Evangeline exclaimed, clutching her chest as she tried to catch her breath.

Nerussa had to stifle her laughter. “Don’t tell me you are afraid of spiders?”

Evangeline ignored the question as she looked back toward the guards who were finishing off the last of the flying arachnids. Unsurprisingly, they were unfazed by the creatures. Their trek through the fort had been relatively quiet, though not uncomfortably so. Their companions were stoic and held themselves with a cool civility that Evangeline found reassuring. Though at times she wondered what they were like off-duty. No doubt they could throw back sujamma and sling barbs like other Dunmer she knew.

But there wasn’t time for any of that. As they moved deeper into the fort, more ash spawn joined them. They were no less menacing as they were outside, but the narrowness of the stone hallways and the dearth of ash in some parts of the building offered some respite as the creatures did not have seemingly endless space and components from which to build and draw strength.

As a number of them seemed to be emerging from a room on the far end of the building, the dunmer fell into formation, with Ulien brandishing a sword for those spawn that were not killed by Tabith’s lighting runes. Evangeline and Nerussa held back. They would nap stragglers that tried to get them from behind, while Evangeline remained alert, lest she needed to pull another elemental daedra from the void. They approached the room weary but vigilant and as they last of the spawn seemed to finally fall, they heard a gravely voice from the back of the room.

“You look tired.”

The figure that emerged was a tall, sallow looking individual, who was very likely human at one point, but whose pallor and cloudy eyes clearly indicated his undead status. Nerussa recognized his armor as that of the third era Imperial army, though this one bore a red stone inlaid in the breastplate.   “General Falx,” she whispered.

“I suppose I should thank you,” he continued, “for showing me how weak these creatures are. Once I’m done killing you, I will be sure to find a more suitable element to conjure. It’s sad really, this ash once held an island together.” He raised his massive war hammer and charged Ulien who had made his way to the front. Tabith shot a perfectly aimed lightning spell, which struck the general square in the chest, but merely caused his armor to spark briefly.

“Here we go,” said Evangeline, nodding to Nerussa. As she was preparing her spell, Falx lurched forward, slowed only momentarily by the Dunmer guards who were knocked readily on their bottoms with only a few swings of his war hammer. Just as she finished the spell, he raised his weapon but before he could come down, Nerussa ran her dagger into his hip—or she attempted this. But the blade would not penetrate and before she could try again, he knocked her back with his other arm.

“Enough! You are all of you beneath me! I am immortal you dull creatures and I will not be bullied by—” His rant was thwarted by the frost atronach Evangeline had conjured who knocked the general in the head before grabbing him and tossing him around, slamming him repeatedly into the ground like a rag doll. The force of the atronach’s blows put dents in the floor and went on until the spell wore off, leaving the broken body embedded in the stone. The group stood quietly for a bit, simply staring at the mess until Tabith spoke up.

“Thank you, again,” she said, nodding to Evangeline. She staggered over to the general’s remains and yanked the heart stone out of its armor. “This should prevent any further resurrections. I hope. I have never seen anything like this.”

Ulien picked up the war hammer and offered it to Evangeline. It was massive, with symbols expertly carved into its head and handle, decorations indicating that the bearer must have been an individual of high achievement, once respected and admired. “This is pretty clearly an Imperial artifact, “ he said, “but more than that, I’d say you’ve earned this.”

“It’s not really my style, but I know someone who will make mincemeat of her enemies with this,” she replied, as she awkwardly accepted the prize. Evangeline couldn’t help but grin at the thought of presenting the weapon to Xeri, who would sneer and berate the women for attempting the trial without her, but would no doubt be unable to resist such a gift.

“You have more work to do here, I suppose. Do you need us to stay?”

She shook her head. “We’re just going to loot the place for letters and journals, or other things of historical interest.”

Ulien smiled. “The councilor will be most pleased. It’s been a long time since anyone scholarly has shown an interest in this place.”

After bidding the guards farewell, Evangeline joined Nerussa who seemed to be growing frantic as she searched the room.

“It’s not here!” she cried.   She looked up at Evangeline from the floor, where she was digging through the ash. “It usually appears right after we complete the trial and I can’t find the next missive anywhere.

“Calm down,” said Evangeline. “Let’s do this methodically.”

They set about searching the entire room and when the missive did not appear, they backtracked, inspecting every corner of the fort with painstaking precision, leaving no chest or barrel unopened, no random flatware unturned. They did this for hours. Though she tried not to let it show, by the time they reached the fort’s entrance, Evangeline was panicked.

“We…failed,” Nerussa’s voice shook. She rubbed her eyes, streaking wet soot across her face. “It’s over.”

“It can’t be over!” Evangeline tried to suppress the painful knot forming in her gut, a discomfort borne of self-reproach, though she was not quite ready to apologize.

But they both knew Nerussa spoke the truth. They trudged wearily outside and stopped to stare across the water. It was morning and they were nearing a full day with no sleep. Without speaking, they walked slowly back toward Raven Rock, their thoughts, ranging from despair to paranoia, spun as they tried to imagine what this meant for the trials.

They were greeted in town by several guards, which seemed unremarkable at first.

“The councilor wishes to see you immediately.”

“We’ve been out all evening,” said Evangeline. “I promised to offer my observations and we will report to the councilor after we’ve had some rest.”

“You’ll come now.”

The guards drew their weapons. Shocked by the sudden assertiveness, Evangeline threw her hands up. “All right, all right, we’ll go.”

The guards led them to Morvayn Manor and they were hurried into the councilor’s throne room, where Lleril Morvayn sat with his second in command, Adril who Evangeline recognized from when they first arrived. Their expressions were severe, but it was unclear if this was because the women were in trouble or just their typical countenance—they were Dunmer after all.

Adril spoke first. “I should have known you weren’t to be trusted.”

Morvayn shook his head. “Adril, please.” He paused again and looked at the women. His expression was more perplexed than severe, though this was not much comfort. “Captain Veleth and his soldiers have reported that you were instrumental in dealing with the ash spawn. For that you have my gratitude. However, we know that you have not been completely forthcoming with us since your arrival here.”

Neither woman responded to this, nor did they look at each other. They kept their gazes firmly on the councilor, anxiously waiting for him to elaborate.

“I do understand why someone of your station might be inclined misrepresent her intentions.” He spoke slowly, considering every word. Normally, Evangeline would appreciate such deliberation, but now it was just making her tense.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t—” She spoke almost automatically but before she could make some protestation she would regret, the councilor threw up his hand, which quieted her.

“I need you to be plain with me,” he said, his voice growing angrier but not less composed. “I need to know what has brought the leader of the Thalmor resistance to Solstheim. Evangeline Sigeweald! What are you doing here?”


	28. Waiting for a Fall

This chapter picks up from [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3710686/chapters/28515968).

Trygve was only too happy to be back in the Rift. One night in Ivarstead with Gwilin, a chipper and garrulous Bosmer with whom Trygve maintained occasional intimate contact, changed his calmly stoic (some would say smug) demeanor into outright, albeit subdued, delight. Also, the tables were turning on the events that happened in the Pale and Elspeth could no longer hold the disintegration of her relationship against him.

He would no longer bear the brunt of exposing the schism between Elspeth and Onmund, the one he assumed always existed, at least from the moment she’d been revealed as Dragonborn.  But Trygve didn’t judge her behavior—he’d leave that to Lydia, who made her disgust over Elspeth’s dalliance with Ralof quite apparent.  However, the sneering and snide comments Elspeth endured through their travels waned as they approached Riften, arriving at Honeyside early in the evening. Iona was sitting quietly at the table when they arrived, only barely acknowledging when they walked in.

But Trygve’s grin faded as Iona failed to return his smile. “Trygve, I need to tell you something,” she said.

He furrowed his brow. “What is it?” Iona was often stone-faced and serious, but her tone betrayed something else this time—sadness. Lydia recognized this immediately and gently grabbed Elspeth by the arm, stepping back to the door in case they needed to leave.

“Lilija is dead,” she replied. She stood and stepped closer to where Trygve was standing, stopping when he put his hand up and backed away from her

“Oh shit,” he said, rubbing his face and running a hand through his hair and rubbing his neck. “I think I’ll….” He looked around the house, his gaze stopping on the pantry barrels that held his mead. Shaking his head, he looked back up at Iona. “I’m going to bed.”

He turned and walked slowly downstairs. It was completely silent for a few moments until he got to his room, when they heard a loud slam and the sound of something crashing on the floor.

Elspeth shuddered. “Maybe we should stay at the inn tonight.” Lydia nodded, but Iona shook her head.

“You don’t have to,” she said. “But I’m heading there now for a drink. Would you care to join me? I know you like to partake.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes and smirked. “I suppose.” Elspeth, though a bit confused by this in-group exchanged, nodded and followed them.

Iona spoke about Lilija on their way to the Inn. “I already told Lydia a bit about Jory, who was Trygve’s closest friend growing up. With Lilija, the four of us were sort of an inseparable group. Lilija apprenticed with Trygve’s mother, so they were especially close. I think people expected them to become betrothed like Jory and I…

At this Elspeth and Lydia gasped, equally surprised and saddened at this revelation.

“But they were never really like that,” she continued. “And he did not agree with her decision to join the Stormcloaks, even as a healer and there was quite a bit of tension before she left.

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” said Elspeth, but when she saw Iona glaring at her, she attempted to backpedal. “I just mean, well, he can be a bit obstinate at times—”

“Aye, you’re probably not wrong,” said Iona, though it was unclear if she agreed or if she simply understood how others understood him.

“How horrible for him,” said Lydia. “For both of you. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” said Iona. She smirked a little at Lydia as they arrived at the inn. “All right. It’s your turn to get me home this time. And you’ll have your work cut out dragging both of our intoxicated arses out of here.” She gestured toward Elspeth.

Lydia laughed as they entered the inn. “Don’t worry about her. She’s impervious.”

“To mead? Really?” Iona was incredulous. “What kind of wizardry is that?”

Elspeth shook her head. “My trainer started me drinking from adolescence. Regularly. She thought it best that I not fall prey to lowered inhibitions and learn to throw a punch whilst under the influence.”

“Sounds brilliant.”

“Not the first word I would use to describe Xeri, but that was one of her better decisions.”

“Better tasting as well,” said Iona, recalling the very brief glimpse into Xeri’s training regimen she was privy too.

“Oh no!” Elspeth laughed. “She wasn’t inclined to waste money on such frivolity. She’d buy whatever swill the guards were distilling in the barracks. Though I really came to appreciate good brandy and wine when I was allowed to procure my own.”

Iona nodded and grinned. “All right then, challenge accepted!” she said, happy to have something to distract her somewhat from Lilija.

“Wait, what challenge?” asked Elspeth, but Iona ignored her and when Talen-Jei arrived at their table she ordered two cliff racers and a Black Briar mead for Lydia who wanted nothing to do with the tavern’s famous concoctions.

“She means to get you sozzled,” said Lydia. “Good luck, though I’m not sure which one of you needs it.”

Talen-Jei brought the first round of drinks, a pitcher of water, and some glasses. They toasted their first round, clanked glasses, and while Lydia sipped, the other two threw back their first shot. Elspeth had had her fair share of sharp, biting hard liquors but she was unprepared for this drink.

“Holy shit!” she said.

“That bad?” asked Lydia, while Iona chuckled.

“Not at all. I mean, that’s strong, but then it warms up your whole body, like a healing spell without an injury. I will take another.”

They ordered another round of drinks and Iona pulled out a deck of cards, dealing out a game of Gurka, which would pass the time and eliminate the pressure to sustain conversation. Despite the pleasant company and the fun of breaking Elspeth’s tolerance to liquor, Iona was still feeling rather distraught.

After several rounds of cards and drinks, the door banged shut, and the soft buzzing around the tavern came to an abrupt stop with the arrival of a tall blonde Nord dressed in fine clothing. The patrons looked around awkwardly as he walked up to the bar and ordered something from Keervara.

“That’s Asgeir Snow-Shod, Lilija’s brother,” whispered Iona. As he made his way back from the counter, all the patrons, save for Iona, put their heads back down. But she waved him over, stood, and offered a hug when he arrived. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” he croaked. “I had to get out of my house.” He looked around at all the customers. Some returned his gaze, offering sympathetic nods. Others simply avoided looking at him. “My parents are just…” he said, but couldn’t continue.

“If you need anything,” she said.

“My brother,” he replied. “If he shows up, maybe keep an eye on him.”

“I will,” she said. “Take care of yourself.”

After he left, she turned and sunk back down in her chair, far more despondent than she was before. “Poor Unmid. Asgeir’s the quiet, diplomatic one, he’ll be okay. Though I’m not sure how his betrothal to Mede’s cousin will fare after this.” Her voice quieted as she saw Elspeth and Lydia staring wide-eyed at her. This was becoming entirely too gossipy for her taste and she stopped. “But Unmid?” she continued. “If he wasn’t already Leila’s housecarl, he’d be halfway to Windhelm by now. Can’t say I’d blame him.” She gestured for more drinks and this time Lydia joined them in slamming down the cliff racers, but made it clear that she would have only one. They played several more rounds of cards and had a few more drinks. Everyone was so focused on their hands that no one had noticed how broody Elspeth had become.

“Fuuuuuk this war,” she said, rather loudly, causing Iona and Lydia to look up from their cards. “I’m the dragonborn. I could pick one side and shout the other side to Oblivion.” In a rather dramatic gesture, she brought her hands down to the side of her chair as if to launch forward but as soon as she started to stand, she sat back down again. “I could end this war right now, but I can’t stand up!” She groaned and slumped down further in the chair.

Iona and Lydia chuckled watching Elspeth try to focus and nearly lost it when she started poking her nose, as if trying to reassure herself that it was still there.

Elspeth ignored the laughing. “I love you guuuuys, even though Lydia hates me now” she said, grinning rather stupidly. “Can’t we leave Trygve here to mourn his friend and bring Iona with us to fight the dragon?”

“I don’t hate you,” Lydia said, amused but still exasperated, “And Iona is mourning her friend too.”

“But she didn’t poison anyone I care about!”

“It’s not always about you, Elspeth,” said Lydia.

Elspeth frowned. “I know that! And I’m sorry, but I’m tired of him being good at everything we need him for.”

Lydia couldn’t exactly disagree but she was embarrassed that Iona was hearing this. However, before she could admonish Elspeth once again, Iona chuckled a bit and sighed.

“I know that you find Trygve to be insufferable,” she said. “I’m sure he is very disruptive to your otherwise casual approach to duty. But he’s loyal and capable and you need him.”

“I suppose,” said Elspeth. She frowned and rubbed her head for a few moments, she didn’t particularly enjoy being characterized as  _casual_. What difference did it make, if she got the job done? But she kept quiet on this; it was becoming difficult to focus on anything. “I’m not thinking straight.”

“I’ll say!” said Iona. “Looks like I won.”

“Why does anyone do this to themselves on purpose?”

“Wait until you wake up tomorrow. It will make even less sense.”

*****

“Look at the size of that thing.” Iona, who had only seen dragons in the far distance, was impressed. “Is that the biggest one you’ve seen so far?”

For the others, whatever novelty the dragons once held, had completely worn off, but the closer the massive creature flew above, they realized this was far more impressive in size than the others. According to Trygve, it was an elder dragon.

They were situated on a ledge, near the bottom of Autumnwatch, where the dragon was perched on top of a long abandoned and ruined watchtower. The outcropping of rocks above them offered enough shelter from the dragon’s powerful frost spray but only allowed room for Trygve and Lydia, armed with poison-tipped arrows, to fight from a distance. The poison was potent and it was apparent that the dragon was weakening, being unable or unwilling to leave his perch for longer and longer turns.

The dragon, which was supposed to be at Lost Tongue Overlook, wound up at Autumnwatch, which required an extra day of riding. Elspeth was already restless upon arrival and the time-consuming process of wearing the dragon down with arrows was wearing her patience thin.

“This is taking too long.”

“I’m with you.” Iona said, though she kept her gaze fixed on Trygve, as if awaiting his directive, which was beginning to annoy Elspeth.

“You need to learn restraint,” he said. “And to minimize risk. Your recklessness will be the death of you, and then, of all of us. You don’t get that privilege.”

He wasn’t wrong, but Elsepth was growing weary of his persistent condescension. She was the Dragonborn. Ysmir, dragon of the north. She wanted to say something, but mid-fight was neither the time nor the place to suddenly start asserting authority.

“It won’t be much longer,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “He’s becoming weak.”

“You said that an hour ago,” she replied. Perhaps it wasn’t time to voice her authority, but she was done waiting; it was time, she decided, to kill the dragon herself. “Keep at him with the arrows, I’m going to finish him off.” She looked around briefly, leaving confines of the ledge and started working her way up the path.

“Gods dammit,” said Lydia. She started to put her bow away, but Trygve stopped her.

“No, Lydia you stay here. You’re better at range. Iona will watch Elspeth’s back.”

Iona nodded and followed Elspeth up the path, taking care to avoid drawing the dragon’s gaze and out of the path of its frost spray. She fell behind Elspeth’s pace and prayed the dragonborn would stop at some point. If Elspeth took a moment to collect herself before throwing herself against this dragon, they might strategize an effective confrontation.

But strategy was the last things on Elspeth’s mind as she made her way up to the dragon’s tower. Though she attempted to keep out of the dragon’s line of sight, she did not take her time. She was not entirely careless, but her mind was singularly focused on reaching the dragon and driving her sword into its gullet. By the time she reached the base of the tower, she was feeling very good about her choice. Though the power of its frost had not diminished, it was clear that the dragon’s movements were becoming increasingly labored. Trygve and Lydia had torn holes in its wings and rendered its left hind leg apparently numb and dragging. Its remaining strength seemed mostly in its right side and its tail. After this assessment, Elspeth felt confident and so made her way up the tower.

The damage to the inside of the tower was considerable, and the top of the steps, Elspeth had to crouch. Between the dragon’s erratic movements and the narrow gap through which she could observe, she had a difficult time gauging the dragon’s positioning. When she saw what looked like a clear pass to the outside she took it, only to be met with a powerful frost spray. She had just enough time to cast a ward, still catching painful pricks of frostbite at her exposed skin. She thought she heard someone calling her name, but before she could look, the dragon caught an arrow in what must have been a sensitive spot under its hind limb because it screeched and threw its head sideways, knocking Elspeth into a pile of rocks.

Just as she began to regret this course of action, the dragon was once again distracted by something on the opposite side. Though its neck and wings were still thrashing, the dragon seemed too weak to gain any height, its tail and hind-legs seemed sufficiently paralyzed for her to climb up its back and crawl, using the long, pointed scales along its spine, to pull herself up to the base of its neck. She drew her sword as she straddled the creature and with all her strength jammed the sword into the softest part of the neck she could find. The dragon screeched again, the loudest, most piercing noise she’d heard ever heard from one. But she hung on, digging her weapon deep into the dragon’s throat bringing the noise to a gurgling halt with blood bursting from the wound and not stopping until its head flopped down.

Elspeth had to steady herself, absorbing the soul as she climbed down from its massive shoulders. With a feeling of immense satisfaction, she crawled down into the tower and bounced down the steps, nearly toppling over Lydia who met her at the entrance.

“And that’s how it’s done!” She grinned.

“Elspeth….” Lydia’s countenance was dour, her tone sullen.

“What?” Elspeth was confused, but kept walking, assuming Lydia would catch up and explain her mood. Usually her housecarl was pleased, elated even, with each dragon slain.

The reason for her friend’s lack of enthusiasm was soon made apparent. As Elspeth turned down the path, she heard it first—the choked sobs and then saw Trygve, rocking and holding Iona’s lifeless body.

She gasped but before she could speak, Trygve leapt to his feet and lunged toward her, his face red, thick angry veins popping out of his forehead.

“You are so fucking reckless!” he roared as he grabbed her shoulders and shoved her as hard as he could. Elspeth simply fell; she was completely blindsided, not only by Iona’s apparent fall but also by Trygve’s aggression. Lydia yelled and rushed to step between them, but Trygve stepped back, shaking his head as he cried. “Don’t you make excuses, either of you. I can’t any more…I’m done. I’m done.” His breathing was heavy as he muttered this last phrase, his voice quieting as he knelt back down by Iona.

“I…”

“Elspeth, no,” Lydia’s voice was quiet, but harsh. When she didn’t move, Lydia gripped her arm and pulled her up, giving Trygve a wide berth as she led them past.

At the bottom of the path, she stood by her horse, seemingly paralyzed by shame and regret. She swallowed and looked at Lydia, “What have I done?”

Lydia just stared at Elspeth; unsure if she should admonish or reassure her friend, wondering if it was possible to do both and realizing she didn’t want to do either; she just wanted to leave. “Let’s just go home,” she said.


End file.
